


Red Rowan

by Indiannahjones



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Action, Adventure, Angst, Background Regis/Dettlaff, Deal with a Devil, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Lambert/Keira Metz, Past Geralt/Shani, Plot, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Smut, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-12 18:03:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 239,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21480559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indiannahjones/pseuds/Indiannahjones
Summary: After the defeat of the Wild Hunt, all Geralt wants to do is retire to Toussaint and live the rest of his days in peace and luxury with Yennefer – but it seems the mistakes of his past are intent on coming back to haunt him. A rash decision from years back leads to unexpected repercussions, and Geralt soon finds himself challenged with a situation he never thought he would have to face. When he also receives a letter from Empress Ciri asking him to investigate one last lead, he finds he cannot turn down her request... even if he really should.  Now, with everything at stake, Geralt must race against time itself as he seeks to undo what mistakes he can, and make the best of the ones he's slowly realizing he can't live without.[New chapters posted monthly!]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Shani, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 254
Kudos: 249





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a letter that can be found in Oxenfurt in Witcher 3, if a save is imported where Geralt took the potion from the alchemists in Flotsam in Witcher 2: "If our calculations are correct, within a year's time his sterility will be reversed - proof of which fact should come quickly in the form of expanding female bellies, if the rumours about him contain even a grain of truth."

“You’re free to find comfort while we’re apart,” she had told him, her tone practiced, poised, utilizing a tenor from her repertoire that gave no more weight to the suggestion than if she had been requesting a different necklace for a certain dress. “As you’ve always done. You will do what you do, but this time, with my blessing.” Despite her best efforts and impeccable performance, Geralt could still detect a note of regret, almost sadness in the sorceress’ blunt tone, something which made his chest clench faintly in the thought that him in another’s arms still had the power to make her feel something too strong to completely conceal.

“Hope is a foolish thing to weigh one’s mind with,” Yennefer had continued, not even seeming to notice he had recognized something a bit off with her performance, or if she had, intentionally ignoring it in the hope that he would pick up the hint and drop the detail as well. “But if we were to find one another again someday, I would not be averse to that. I’ve seen too much to put stock in fate, but should fate decide we should come together again… perhaps that would not be such a terrible outcome.”

“Perhaps,” Geralt had agreed. And that had been the last they had spoken on the subject.

A full month of winter had passed since the defeat of the Wild Hunt, the idle snowdrifts lying dormant and deep across the previously verdant, muddy fields of Velen, blindingly white against what pale, watery sunlight had managed to reach the ground through the deadened trees. The cold was the least of the little found family’s worries, however; with the onset of ice had come an even more unwelcome encroacher, a bannered company swathed in gold, led by a man with the bloodless face of an iguana. Voorhis and his compatriots had appeared unannounced over the crest of the hill as Geralt and Ciri had played in the snow, causing Ciri’s expression to sink in despair as soon as she spotted the formation approaching, knowing too well that the sight of them meant her hard-won, newfound happiness would be soon coming to an end.

Noting the change in his daughter’s expression, Geralt had followed her line of sight, his own brow furrowing into stone as he watched the cavalry approaching. He wondered, faintly – recklessly – if there might still be time for the two of them to run, to disappear into the snowy woods, to hide out in the wild as witchers do and pretend they had never seen the banner of the Great Sun coming to collect its ghastly due. But that was unrealistic, he knew, and would reflect badly on Ciri’s repute, and so he only stood his ground as the Nilfgaardian horses circled the two of them in the snow, snorting white gusts from their velvet pink noses as they tossed their ornate reigns in the frosty air.

Voorhis’ bluish lips were a thin, stark gash in his face as he addressed Geralt and Ciri from atop his horse. He did not bother to dismount as he spoke, only informing them in his cold, detached way that, with the defeat of the Hunt and Ciri’s obligation to the witchers now fulfilled, Emhyr would have his sole heir return to Vizima to take her place as Empress. Ciri had held fast to Geralt’s side, but Geralt had shaken his head, loathe as he was to let go of the hand that now clung so determinedly to his, seeking his support in a conflict in which he had no voice to intervene. He wanted her to stay with him as badly as she did, but he could not deny her a calling for which he knew she had been destined from the start. She had never truly been his, he knew, and perhaps there was some good in that – Ciri was kind, and good, and bright, and though he hated to see her leave, he was sure she would put those traits to good use when she took over as ruler of Nilfgaard.

That had been the beginning of the end for the little family left behind in Ciri’s wake. With their daughter now gone, a weary silence had fallen between Geralt and Yennefer, a silence for which neither had been prepared, and which neither now seemed able to overcome. Without Ciri to offer a buffer between them, her silvery laugh to light the tiny taverns and halls on the road to wherever their feet would next take them, they found they had little left to say, little left to talk about, little left to wonder that had not yet been wondered to the barest of its threads. There was a sadness between them, a melancholy which neither of them had seen encroaching, but which now seemed intent to swallow them whole; an emptiness, a hollow through which the cold winter wind of the Hunt now whistled, chilling them to the bone, and one which nothing but Ciri, it seemed, was capable to fill.

It had been Yennefer who had first suggested they take a break, bringing up the subject as Geralt had watched her brushing her raven hair in front of a makeshift vanity. He was mesmerized by her preening, always had been, and it had taken him a good moment to realize she was speaking to him at all, too entranced by her ebony tresses to pay much attention to anything else. When he did finally comprehend her words, he found that he had little heart to react to them, a fact which only surprised him a bit, and then only for a fleeting moment. He had known, deep down, that something like this was likely to come, after all; the emptiness left by Ciri’s absence had simply caused too large a rift for even the lovers to ignore.

“Should fate decide we should come together again, perhaps that would not be such a terrible outcome,” Yennefer had said, her voice the sharp tone of a realist. He had awoken the following morning to find Yennefer’s belongings gone from his bedside, the yawning emptiness left in their wake as if someone had torn the wall from his chambers, allowing a biting winter chill to enter and settle where the night before his would-be wife had lain. He had packed up his own things only a few minutes after waking, what slim possessions he deemed important enough to keep on his person, before saddling Roach and heading for the open road, hoping to distract from the hollowness in his heart with work and witcherly purpose.

Work had been simple enough to find – so simple, in fact, that, had he not known better, he might have thought the work had come to him, for how easily he had found it. It was only too late he realized his error in taking on a contract he had known from the start had sounded too good to be true, and he cursed himself for being so foolish, blaming his lapse in judgement on his distracted state of mind. He had been asked to slay a monster in the Oxenfurt sewers – a simple enough assignment, from the sound of it – only to find that nothing about it was as simple as it had originally been presented to seem. The monstrous façade of the Oxenfurt toad still loomed fresh in his mind as he made his way back to the Garin Estate, battered and shipwrecked and marred with the scar of a magical contract he did not fully comprehend, only to find that, with the toad now slain, he found himself with much more to do than he would ever have originally agreed, had he known the stipulations from the start.

Despite his growing frustration with his underhanded employers, Geralt found that not everything he had encountered on this wild, unpredictable contractual journey had been something to resent. It had been many years since he had last seen Shani, the beautiful redheaded doctoral student with whom he had shared a short, steamy tryst, interrupted as it was by Dandelion climbing so unceremoniously in through the bedroom window. She had been only seventeen then, eighteen at most, and Geralt old enough to be her father many times over, but she had not allowed that to stop her from falling for him, nor he from falling for her. He had encountered her again a few months later in Vizima, when she had gotten caught up in a mission he had taken on involving the safety of a young Source, but he had been too distracted by other matters at the time, and had not been able to take any satisfactory time to reconnect with the doctoral student then.

Now, as he had been pursuing his contract in the sewers of Oxenfurt, he had run into Shani again entirely by chance, and though it had been nearly eight years since their last encounter, it seemed neither of them had seen fit to forget the other, nor the lingering feelings still left unattended. She had told him then, there in the sewers, even covered as they were in slime and rot, that she would like to reconnect once the two of them found themselves back on the surface and slightly more clean. Even covered in entrails as she was, Geralt could see that her beauty had not faded at all from the last time the two had spoken – and so, on his return from the Garin Estate, he had followed her up on her request, making his way into Novigrad to visit her at her temporary clinic in the city.

She had clearly not expected him to come, as she had seemed surprised and delighted by his visit, and had eagerly invited him to join her again later in attending the wedding of a local acquaintance. He had given a half-hearted answer at the time, not much for parties or dancing, himself – but the ghost of Vlodimir von Everec had been insistent, and so Geralt found himself showing up at the wedding gate in spite of his own reservations, dressed in stolen finery, shaved clean, and smelling of floral soap, much to Shani’s surprise. He had tried to have some fun at the party in spite of his spectral condition, but found it nearly impossible, as he had infuriatingly little control over the lascivious spirit and his desires – and by the end of the night, he could not help wondering if Shani might never deign to speak to him again. He could not blame her, he told himself, after the way she had been treated the whole night through by the ghostly philanderer, and he would not be surprised if she decided to disappear from his life all over again after this.

“A lad clutching stems is a lad caught at mischief!” came the scolding cry of a bent old woman, but Geralt ignored her as he made his way through the dancing and merriment that filled the too-warm barn. O’Dimm had been judicious enough to separate him from Vlodimir come midnight, and now that he found himself blessedly unencumbered, he hoped he could still salvage what was left of the night with Shani after what damage the spirit had done. He had plucked a stem of rowan from one of the trees in the courtyard, and now held the branch behind his back as he walked, taking special care to keep the leaves from peeking out and ruining the surprise before he had a chance to reach her and reveal it on his own time.

It seemed his precautions were unnecessary, however, as Shani appeared too lost in her thoughts to notice him approaching either way; her eyes were fixed deep in her half-empty flagon, her chin resting pensively in her slender hand, her pretty brow furrowed over her soft hazel eyes as she considered the darkened basin of her mug. Her concentration was broken only by the sound of his heavy boots coming closer, and she quickly looked up from the recesses of her thoughts, blinking a few times as she now found the witcher standing unexpectedly in front of her once more. Her expression faltered at his unforeseen return, surprise fighting confusion on her pretty face, before her countenance finally began to lift again, this time curving her rosy lips up into the softest of weary smiles. “Still here?” she asked, half-heartedly attempting to feign a note of cheerful surprise. “Thought you had to meet Olgierd.”

Geralt hesitated at the comment, feeling a subconscious twinge of guilt begin to gnaw at him at the thought, but he quickly pushed it aside, instead offering Shani a gentle smile as he cleared his throat to speak. “You and I see each other so rarely, I figured Olgierd could wait until morning,” he answered, feeling a bit out of his element even as he said it. He had never been much good with apologies, even less so with cheeky ones, and the words felt stiff and strange coming off his tongue – _playful_, something he had not felt in quite some time in his years as a witcher. Pulling the branch from behind his back, he held the spray out to her across the table, watching as her eyes settled on the bushel of rowan before her expression began to quickly lift from weariness to surprise, and then finally to genuine happiness as she realized what he was offering her.

“Smile, Shani,” Geralt told her, grinning wider at the sight of her happy face.

A soft pink blush lit Shani’s cheeks as she leaned in to admire the proffered bouquet, cradling the cluster of berries against her eager palms as she looked between Geralt and the gift. “You remembered I liked the rowan!” she told him, accepting the branch from his hand, before gently twisting a bushel of crimson berries from the stalk and tucking the sprig behind her ear. Securing the rowan in place, she looked up at him across the table again, smiling playfully as she sought his approval for her new hair decoration.

Geralt could feel his heart skip a beat at the sight – the vibrant red of the rowan berries bringing out the full, striking impact of her green-flecked hazel eyes – and he found himself searching half-awaredly for a seat before he even realized he needed to sit down, lest his knees give out beneath him. “Remember a lot of things about you,” he answered, trying to sound as calm and collected as he hoped he still looked. Folding his hands in front of him, he leaned forward over the table, feeling the weight of his medallion bounce idly against his chest as he stared at Shani across their assortment of mugs. He tried to read her expression through the fading orange glow of the decorative lanterns, but found it was difficult to concentrate on just that.

She truly was a stunning woman, he thought; as stunning as any sorceress he had ever met, though there was something about her in particular that took his breath away in ways no sorceress ever had. Everything about her was honest, kind, and unpretentious – her smile sweet, her manner practical – all a far cry from almost every sorceress he had come to know through his years of travel as a witcher. At the moment, she seemed happy enough with the gift he had given her, elated almost, but even that instance of happiness did not seem enough to keep a weary melancholy from slowly beginning to creep back into her expression, and Geralt frowned at the slow, unconscious change, still not quite sure what was causing such distress in the usually high-spirited doctor.

Reaching across the table again, Geralt slid his large, rough fingers gently around her porcelain, well-kept hand, causing her to look up at the gesture, distracted, surprised to find her unconscious fidgeting so abruptly interrupted. “Wedding’s still in full swing, but your face… I’d say you were at a funeral,” he told her, causing her expression to falter again, still seeming half-surprised at having been caught. “Why so sad?”

“Sad?” Shani asked, raising her brows. She paused for a moment, considering the question, as if only half intent on trying to deny it, before finally taking a deep breath and letting it out in a low, soft sigh. “Not really,” she answered, shaking her head. “It’s just… after I caught the garland, I realized something…” Turning to look away from Geralt, she instead turned her attention to the courtyard outside, watching the merriment as the free-footed wedding-guests danced gaily beneath the light of the stars, bathed in the glow of celebratory torches and swaddled in a blanket of wistful night. The muffled voices of the guests were nearly unintelligible over the thrum of the barnyard minstrels, but their tone was undeniably joyous, their laughter cheerful and bright, and as Geralt listened, he began to feel more and more like a man apart, isolated from the world through no fault of his own by the sound of their simple mirth.

There was a familiarity to this sensation, Geralt realized; the recognition of an emotional display, but the inability to fully understand or partake in it the way others did. He wondered if that part of his being was as strange to Shani as it was to most people, before he suddenly realized that, if anyone could understand that feeling, it would probably be Shani – knowing the value of concepts, wanting to share in them like others did, but having them all but stripped away by the demands of her line of work. She could act as carefree as she chose, by performance – laughing, carousing, dancing the night away – all the while knowing deep down that the night would never last, and come morning, she would have to return to the hard, blood-soaked life she had before, with only the faintest memory of the taste of wine or the smell of sweetbread lingering on her senses to remind her that she had once been happy.

The thought of their shared disaffection was quickly pushed from Geralt’s mind as he watched Shani turn her gaze down to the dusty floor, unable to continue watching the merriment going on outside the barnyard doors. “The years are flying by,” she said after a moment, shaking her head, her voice quiet as she stared at the packed, hay-strewn floor beneath their feet. “Yet all I ever do is study, pump stomachs, and reattach limbs… all alone.”

“You’ve got me,” Geralt offered, trying not to be too put off by the fact that she seemed to have forgotten that.

Shani looked up at the sentiment, narrowing her hazel eyes momentarily. “For how long?” she asked, trying to sound good-natured about it, though some of her distress was still clearly perceptible in her voice. “A day? Two?”

“Don’t know,” Geralt answered, shrugging his shoulders. “Could be more. Maybe forever.”

Shani chuckled softly at the response, her slender fingers squeezing a bit tighter against his palm as she ran the pad of her thumb tenderly across the back of his weathered knuckles. “Forever is a very long time, Geralt. Especially for a witcher,” she told him, offering him a sad, reassuring smile at the thought. “Don’t get me wrong – it’s nice, having you around, but… you come and go. I need someone who’ll be there every night when I come home.” She paused, her gaze trailing to one side again, though she did not appear to be looking at anything in particular this time, merely distracted from the moment by a thought.

“After a day of bandaging wounds and sewing up guts, I need a good glass and a good laugh with someone who will help me forget it all for a moment,” she said, her tone almost wistful, making Geralt wish he had never tried to press the matter. Shani deserved that life – that quiet, uneventful life, where the only thing she had to worry about coming home to at the end of the day was a home-cooked meal and a warm embrace. She deserved someone to listen to her worries and help her feel like herself again, not someone whose very existence would only add to her already-wearisome list of woes and responsibilities.

“I get it,” he answered, solemnly, not yet ready to let go of the hand that held so tenderly to his. He hated to admit it, hated to see the look on her face that said she had known all along. Perhaps it was the heat of the nuptial barn, or the fumes of the plentiful liquor causing his head to swim, but he could not remember ever having seen anything as beautiful as Shani was right now – pink and vibrant as a rose, adorned in a cluster of rowan – and the thought of disappointing her was almost more than the witcher could bear. He wanted to correct her on their life together, to tell her otherwise, promise her the moon and all its stars; tell her that he could be the man she wanted, live the life she dreamed; but even now he knew that could never be true. He was an old man, stuck in his ways – an itinerant soul, incapable of sitting still for more than a few short weeks at a time before the restlessness of the Path called him back to the wilds once more.

Letting out a solemn breath, he forced a silvered smile to his face, before reaching out his other hand to place it atop the two of theirs still clasped across the table. “But… I am happy to see you, always,” he told her, offering her an affectionate nod. “And tonight, I’m all yours.”

Shani smiled back at him at this, her smile softer this time, brighter, as if the hint of sadness that had entered her expression earlier had all but faded away, at least for one fleeting moment. “Well… in that case, let’s drink to tonight,” she answered, using her free hand to pick up her goblet and indicating towards him with it.

“To tonight,” Geralt agreed, retrieving one hand to pick up his goblet as well. “May the moment last.”

* * *

The raised scratches Shani’s short nails had left on Geralt’s back had lasted only a day before his enhanced healing had seen to their removal, but the memory of their night together after the wedding was still fresh and floral in his mind as he made his way back to Novigrad. He still saw every detail as clearly as if it had happened only hours before, rather than days; the pale of moonlight against her porcelain skin, the lapping of water on the sides of the rowboat as it rocked against their weight. Her gasps and moans still rang in his ears, the soft touch of her hands against his chest as she straddled him in the tiny confines of the boat, his rough palms tender against the pink blush of her thighs as he pressed up inside her, feeling her slender form shudder on top of him, silhouetted against the painted night sky. He still felt the warmth of her body encompassing him as he had let loose inside her, throwing her head back with a wild, blissful moan and laugh, her thighs tensing against his sweaty hips as he growled like an animal at the sensation, panting as the shocks of orgasm shuddered through him like a tidal wave.

They had spent only a few minutes recovering after that, with Shani lying on top of him in the boat, her face buried in the side of his neck as he ran his fingers through her soft, sweaty hair, kissing her forehead as he took in her intoxicating, feminine scent. Shani smelled of sweet wine and rowan berries, mixed with something more floral and medicinal – lavender maybe, or sage. He had never been much good with aesthetic scents; his expertise as a witcher lay more in the smells used for tracking, or the scent of a creature’s intentions. He could smell fear, and blood, and the stench of death, but had sneezed like a dog the first few times he had caught a whiff of Yennefer’s perfume, only learning through time to love and recognize its signature components.

Geralt and Shani had rowed back to the shore after their first go-round in the boat, Geralt still half-erect as he watched the starlight shimmer off Shani’s flawless, sweat-dappled skin. They had barely managed to make ground and set out a blanket before they had started up again, this time with Geralt on top, driving the doctor into the soft sand of the shore as she rocked eagerly against his motions. Her nails dug deep in the flesh of his back as she moaned, hot and heavy, in his ear, the sound of her pleading to feel him inside her pushing him to press harder, faster, the knot of orgasm starting to twist again in his stomach as he felt her wrap her sweaty legs around his waist. Letting out another feverish laugh, she leaned back her head, exposing her milky neck, and he kissed it, breathlessly, dragging his teeth across her skin, shuddering as he heard her moan once again, ecstatic with the thrill of danger.

She had heard Dandelion’s ballads, of course – knew well the story of Geralt and the striga – and he growled softly, the sound deep in his throat, grinning like a wolf as he sank his teeth softly into the flesh of her neck, not hard enough to bruise, only to entice. Shani gasped as a shock of thrill and pleasure rocked through her at the motion, the sensation causing Geralt’s body to shudder as he pushed up inside her again, and he pressed a hungry, feral kiss against the underside of her jaw, forcing her to lift her head further upward to accommodate. “Melitele, _yes_,” she breathed, sounding thoroughly pleased, and he had grinned at the sentiment, catching her lips in another desperate kiss, before his hand found her breast, his rough thumb playing over the rosy nipple as he cupped the soft warmth of it in his weathered palm.

He had only managed to last a little while longer before her pleas to come inside again had driven him past the edge of reason, and he had done as he was told, spilling deep inside her as she exclaimed in pleasure, clutching the witcher close as he let out a short, sated howl of his own. His fingers dug deep in her skin as he panted and shuddered, the last shocks of aftermath pulsating through him as he lay down beside her on the blanket, this time pressing his face into the soft pillow of her bare chest. He could feel her gentle fingers in his wintery hair as he breathed heavily against her, and he wrapped a strong arm around her slender form, pulling her close to him across the blanket, afraid to let go for fear of realizing this perfect moment was never meant to last.

When he woke up the next morning, he found to his dismay that his fear of the previous night had come true; Shani was already dressed by the time he awoke, the first rays of sunlight filtering through his eyelids to rouse him from a restful sleep. She smiled sadly over at him as he sat up on the blanket, still fully naked, looking confused and disappointed at the realization that the night before, like all good things in his life, had always been destined to come to an end. They had spoken only shortly of the night before, just enough to confirm that it had not all simply been a wonderful dream, before Shani had gotten up to leave, seeming strangely melancholy and distant at the thought of lingering feelings still existing between them.

“I need to sort it all out in my head,” Shani had told him. “Alone.”

And so he had left her alone for a while, allowing her time to collect her thoughts before returning to visit her in Novigrad again. By the time he arrived to her temporary clinic, she was already packing her things in her trunk, preparing to leave on some new adventure she had not seen fit to tell him was coming. He had been surprised by the revelation, but had been put at ease once more by her reassurance that she would never have left the city for good without first finding him to bid him farewell. She had gone to sit on the bed after that, turning her gaze out over the room, as if to take stock of the life she had made in the few short weeks she had settled in the city. Seeing his opportunity to talk, Geralt had followed suit, settling down on the opposite end of the bed before looking up at her across its worn counterpane.

“Said you needed to think things over,” he told her, broaching the question with less hesitation than he had expected. “Have you?”

Shani sucked her lip at the question, her dark lashes dropping to obscure her hazel eyes, making it difficult to tell what she was thinking as she stared at the floor between their feet. “Yes…” she finally responded, though he could tell from her voice that she was not as concrete on the matter as she wanted him to think. “I’ve decided… you’re incredibly sweet, but…”

“But we’re better off keeping things as they were,” Geralt answered, finishing her sentence for her. He had known from the start that this was where this conversation was going, but he had hoped he might give Shani a chance to surprise him, to prove him wrong, to make him feel a bit more human and wanted for the first time in as many years as he could remember. She had no obligation to do so, of course; whatever decision she made would be hers to choose, and if that meant bidding farewell to the witcher, he found he could not hold it against her.

Shani’s expression was difficult to read as she stared at him across the bed, her mouth twisted in an odd, thoughtful half-frown as she listened to him speak. “Mhm,” she finally answered, turning her attention down to her attire, smoothing the sleek material between her hands, as if looking for some tangible distraction to help her think more clearly. “Y-you’re always going places, and they’re likely to ship me off soon… and besides, we tried once, and you know how that worked out.”

“We were younger then,” Geralt pointed out. “Different people. You were…”

“I was seventeen,” Shani said, looking up at him again.

“Mm,” Geralt answered, letting out a low grunt at the reminder. “And I was a cretin. But you’re…”

“Twenty-five.”

“Older… now,” Geralt continued, treading much more lightly now. “And so am I.”

Shani sighed at the conversation, crossing one dainty leg over the other as she folded her hands in her lap again. “Geralt… I adore you,” she told him, causing him to frown at the lead-in. “You know I do. That hasn’t changed, and I doubt it ever will. But… we just have too much history between us. I know the kind of person you are.” Taking a deep breath, she laced her fingers anxiously over her crossed knee, rocking back a bit in her seat on the bed as she fidgeted her dangling, booted foot in thought. “You leave,” she told him, frankly. “You always do. And I’m afraid, if I become too used to seeing your face… one of these days I might not want to let you leave again.”

Geralt took a deep breath at the admission, turning to look away from Shani for a moment as he thought it over. It was an honest answer, and not one without merit, but for some reason he was finding it hard to accept as something he still felt an unalterable connection to. She had every reason to think of him as that kind of person, after the way their relationships had always gone – the way he had left without a word after Oxenfurt, the way he had disappeared completely after Vizima – but he knew he had changed in their time apart, and now looked back on the way he had treated her as something a cad would do, a man with no moral or emotional commitment except to himself and the path ahead.

That was the man he had been before Ciri, before she had brought him and Yennefer back from the strange abyss of death, before he had grown so close to the girl he had come to see as his own flesh and blood. That was who he had been before the concept of life and the ones who meant the most in it had seemed so dear and fleeting, so much so that the thought of taking those things for granted made him sick to his stomach in a way he had not felt in years.

“Shani…” he said, speaking slowly now. “When I talked about forever…”

“I know,” Shani answered. “You weren’t being serious. The wedding, the time we’ve spent together… it was nice. But you have your life, and I have mine.” She shrugged at the thought, her lips thinning in a strained smile. “We—this doesn’t make sense, long-term,” she said, looking away again. “You know that as well as I do.”

Geralt frowned at the redirection, shaking his head, as much to clear it as to prove her wrong. “No, that’s—that’s not it at all,” he told her, sounding more distressed than he had expected. Letting out a deep sigh, he rested his hands on his weary knees, staring down at the floor between his boots as he tried to think of how to explain it. “I’m tired, Shani,” he finally said, looking up at her again, his expression wan but sincere. “After all my years spent on the Path… I just want to rest. Which was why I thought… maybe I could do that… with you. Rest. Live a normal life.” He paused as he said this, watching her face, as if hoping for some indication that he had chosen the proper words to convey what he was feeling. “Guess I just wondered if… you’ve ever considered that possibility,” he added, quieter now, much less sure. “Settling down… with a witcher.”

Shani paused, before looking up at the question, her pretty brow furrowed, as if this had been the last thing she had expected to hear from the usually steadfast witcher. He was not known for his sentimentality, that much was true, but he still felt he had too much to lose by not speaking his mind to allow his generally stoic nature to overwhelm his deeper feelings. Despite what people said about him, and about witchers in general, he did have emotions, just like anyone else – sorrow, fear, pain, and joy, all blunted by the Trials to keep from overtaking his common sense, but all still very much present and real. Now, the thought of losing Shani again after so many years apart was enough to cause his heart to clench in anguish, the same anguish he had felt when Ciri had left to rule Nilfgaard, twisted the same way in the fear that he might never see her again.

“Any witcher, or…?” Shani asked after a moment, clearly teasing, though it took him a moment to register; he was still lost in his thoughts, weary and worried, and the wry joke had gone right over his head. Looking down again, Shani smirked faintly at her hands in her lap, the corners of her rosebud lips turning upward in a soft, witty grin as she let out a quiet sigh. “Honestly… I did think about it, at one time,” she answered, more truthfully this time. “And, in a different life, I might have taken it seriously as a possibility. Settling down, spending the rest of my life by your side… coming home every night to curl up beside you and dream of a life of marital bliss.” Pausing at this, she stared down at her lap, at her dainty hands folded and fidgeting, noting, Geralt supposed, the lack of rings on her fingers, with one in particular being the most prominently lacking.

“But I know you, Geralt,” she added after a moment, looking up at him again, drawing his gaze back to her serious face. “You’re not the settling-down type. No matter how nice it is to think about, that life could never be.”

“You never know,” Geralt answered. “It could happen. People change all the time.”

Shani only chuckled at this. “I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head, not even seeming to notice as Geralt’s expression twisted at her from across the bed, discouraged by her so-easy dismissal. “A simple life would bore you to madness. I couldn’t do that to you.” Having said this, she paused again, her gaze turning down to her lap once more, before she took in a deep breath, sucking thoughtfully at her lower lip. “Besides,” she added, a bit sheepishly. “I want children, and… if your constant reminders about witchers’ sterility is anything to go by, I don’t think that’s something you could give me. No offense.”

“None taken,” Geralt answered, honestly. “Can’t say I’d be much good with kids anyway.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Shani returned, turning her hazel gaze up to look at him again. “You were always good with Ciri, from what I’ve been told.” She hesitated at the mention of Ciri, realizing too late her unwitting slip, her watchful expression never leaving his face, as if worried she might have struck a chord that would upset the witcher more than the current conversation was already doing. Geralt said nothing at the comment, his expression set, staring just as evenly across the bed, watching as Shani let out another soft, tired sigh before reaching over to take one of his hands in hers, resting them both in his lap. “I’m sorry, Geralt,” she said, shaking her head again. “I love you, but… I don’t think this could work. That we… could work.”

“Hm,” Geralt responded, more of a grunt than an actual reply. He hated to admit that she had a point – several, in fact – but he knew that everything she said carried weight, and all of it had merit, at least in her eyes. He wanted to argue back again, to tell her she was wrong, to reconsider, that they could figure out a way to get her everything she wanted, even if he, himself was not fully capable of providing it on his own. Instead, he only let out a soft sigh, dropping his gaze to the hand still in his lap, before nodding along with her decision, feeling his heart clench tight at the motion. “You’re right,” he told her, his voice soft with finality. Then, looking up at her again, he paused, considering, before offering her a soft, weary, crookedly forced attempt at a smile. “But… promise to share a bottle of wine with me from time to time?”

Shani smiled back at the question, her hand squeezing affectionately around Geralt’s palm. “Of course,” she told him, her voice bright. “I’ll be sure to keep one handy.”

* * *

He had seen it coming from the start, he told himself. People like him were not meant to be happy; that was what the world had determined, whether or not he and those like him might agree. Witchers, mages, nonhumans alike – the world was unkind to those who did not fit its ideal, and he had always known, deep down, that lasting happiness was not something that had ever been truly within his reach. The thought had been there all along, lingering like a spectre at the back of his mind, but to hear it expressed so plainly to his face by the ever-resilient Shani felt like the final nail in a coffin of his own design.

He had brought it on himself as much as anything, he knew. Though his witcherly nature had played a part, he had ultimately been the one who had decided to act as he had all these years, forging a reputation for himself as a man for whom settling down was impossible. He was impulsive, unreliable, and unrefined, with a fatal weakness for beautiful women, whether or not they happened to be the same beautiful women he was supposed to be bonded with at the time. He could remember the look on Yennefer’s face when she had learned he had slept with Triss during their time apart – that he had bonded with Triss, told her he loved her – a look which still haunted him to this day. Her anger, however, had not been what struck him most when she had been told of his interlude with her once-best friend; it had been the look of betrayal in her face, betrayal by a man she had loved with a bond beyond that which the world could comprehend.

There was nothing in this world more precious to him than Yennefer, and though he had been without memory at the time and so could not be fully blamed for his actions, he still felt he had committed a wrong for which he could never be entirely forgiven, and could not help wondering if he might truly deserve the life of loneliness he now led as a result.

The thought of Yennefer made his heart clench in his chest, and he turned to look out over the side of the ship he had secured passage on after leaving Novigrad, taking note of the white-capped waves lapping frothily against the side of the vessel, warning of harsher weather. The sky did not appear to promise rain, at least not anytime soon, but the sea never lied, and Geralt frowned as he stared out over its endless, cerulean depths, wondering if they might make land in Skellige before the worst of the storm began to fall. He tried his best to concentrate solely on the journey ahead, but thoughts of the weather could only hold his interest for so long before his mind began to wander back to where it had been before – to Yennefer, a woman for whom he had fallen so hard and so fast on their very first meeting that he had made the rash decision to command an otherworldly wish to tie them forever in destiny.

Even after Yennefer had managed to track down another djinn, using her new wish to dispel the first, nothing had changed between them. Their destiny had changed, he knew – the threads of fate which had tied them in life as in death – but their feelings had remained the same, a thought which had given Geralt hope at the time, but which he now realized was just one more thing he could never truly enjoy.

He had seen it happen only a few times: a witcher abandoning the Path for want of a normal life, trying as he might to carve a small home and bed for himself from the substratum of a civil society. It had never turned out, as far as he knew, but the fact that some still tried amazed him – though whether that was in envy or morbid fascination he could not quite say. The thought had never truly crossed his mind at all before the past year or so, with the meeting first of Jad Karadin, Lambert’s Cat School rival, and then later the Countess Mignole, Vesemir’s long-lost sweetheart. The Countess had held a flame for Vesemir, and he for her, for more years than even Geralt and Yennefer had known one another existed, and the fact that not even one as accomplished as Vesemir could justify leaving the Path after so many years was a telling omen into Geralt’s own bleak future.

Vesemir had spoken of the Countess only once in his and Geralt’s years together, and then only in strangely awkward passing, as if the idea of leaving Kaer Morhen for his own personal happiness was a shameful thought Vesemir could not justify himself to indulge in. “And you’ve no desire to go and find her?” Geralt had asked, fascinated by the rare kernel of insight into the thoughts of the older witcher.

Vesemir had grunted at the question, ruffling his moustache with a huff of breath. “Later, maybe,” he had replied after a while. “Once it’s over. Once things are… calm again.” But things had never calmed for Vesemir, and Geralt had not had the heart nor courage to return to Oxenfurt and inform his lady love that her dashing witcher would never be coming back from his wild trail.

The knock on Yennefer’s tavern-room door came just as she was starting to disrobe for sleep, and she looked up quickly at the sound, irritated at having been interrupted in her nightly rituals. Her velvet and leather jacket hung half-buttoned across her bosom as she stood from the vanity she had been provided on request, taking the few steps to the door to see who dared call on the sorceress at such an hour. She was painfully underdressed for an audience, she realized – she had already shed her feathered shrug, folding it neatly with her gloves and belt on the vanity – but she at least still had on her tall leather boots, making her seem not so short as she made her way to the doorframe.

It was not unusual for townsfolk to approach her to ask for help, if they recognized her for what she was and needed some sort of magical assistance. Even so it frustrated her to no end when they chose to approach her during times when she was least available, rather than doing it at some point during the day when she was at her most helpful and dressed. Throwing open the tavern-room door with a scowl, Yennefer glowered out at her unwelcome guest, intent on giving her unscheduled visitor a razor-sharp piece of her mind – only to find that, to her surprise, her mind was not what this visitor was interested in. The weight of Geralt’s body hit hers like a battering ram, and she found herself pushed back into the room, his mouth on hers, being pinned up against the nearest wall as the door slammed shut behind them.

“Geralt,” Yennefer barely found time to breathe, before they started kissing again, winded, desperate, devouring one another, their hands blind with passion as they tried to touch every inch of the other’s body they could find. Geralt’s mouth moved across her face, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her throat, his hands gripping fast to the pristine breasts half-exposed by the low cut of her shirt. She could feel the solid bulge of his pants as he pushed up against her on the wall, the wild heat pulsating from its straining threads nearly causing her to sweat in anticipation. Her breath heaved hot and heavy in her chest as she felt him press his groin against hers again, touching her, teasing her, feeling the pulsing warmth of an indulgence they had both missed so much in the weeks between.

“Geralt,” Yennefer panted again, still stunned by his unexpected appearance. “What—” But she did not have time to finish the thought, as she suddenly felt his hands on her pants, his rough fingers, deft with years of practice, taking only a second to undo the intricate clasp. The air of the tavern was cold on Yennefer’s bare skin as he pulled her pants and panties down to her knees in one skilled motion, and she shuddered as she felt his strong hands on her thighs, spreading them to accommodate him as he knelt down before her. Yennefer gasped as he set to work, feeling a shock run up her back at the first sensation of his tongue between her legs, and she whimpered in pleasure, running her fingers eagerly through his wild, white hair.

“Missed you, Yen,” Geralt told her, breathless, looking up for a moment, hoping to meet her eyes. The moistened white of his scruffy beard sparkled like snow in the candlelight, and Yennefer felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight of his face so adoringly covered in her fluids. He knew exactly what he was doing, she knew, and she could not help but feel a bit amused by how well he had come to know and exploit even her most depraved quirks.

“Don’t stop,” Yennefer insisted, reaching down a hand to rest on his head. “Don’t talk. Not now.”

Taking the signal, Geralt tucked his face back between the sorceress’ legs, feeling her painted nails comb eagerly through his hair as he worked his magic beneath her. She moaned, shuddering at his touch, each flick of his tongue earning a jolt of pleasure, and he grinned to himself at the accomplishment, pleased with his own talent and skill.

In his years as a witcher, he had made a habit of always trying to help the most humanoid of creatures, rather than resorting to killing them, and he found that that often paid off in unexpected ways – such as the time he had learned from a grateful succubus the best methods for pleasuring his female companions. The succubus had allowed him to try it out on her, guiding him until he got it just right, and eventually, with practice, he had managed to bring the demon to orgasm without ever taking off his trousers. He had had to wash those same trousers on his return to the tavern, but the fact still stood that he had learned his lesson well, and was now using that same knowledge on Yennefer, intent on pleasuring his lover until she came.

Yennefer shivered as he moved his hands around to grab hold of her ass, his rough fingers pressing into the pale, supple flesh, and she leaned her head back against the wall, grateful to have him there grounding her, lest she melt into a puddle at the sensation. Every so often Geralt would feel a jolt of adrenaline shoot through her body at a particularly skilled touch, and he chuckled, the sound low and animal in his throat, taking great pleasure in the way her body moved, her knees shaking, chest heaving, hands furling and unfurling at her sides. He explored her with his mouth, knowing her, feeling her knees jerk towards his head as she let out a sharp exclamation of pleasure, her shoulders locking as her pristine hands began to travel over her body, unsure where to put them in her ecstasy. She eventually settled on her breasts, massaging them with a deep, breathy moan, her legs starting to shake as Geralt readjusted them against his shoulders on the wall.

The sorceress whined, biting her lip, squirming in pleasure as she arched her spine, before another visceral shudder caused her body to quake, and Geralt finally felt the sweet taste of success cross his lips. The witcher grinned as he wiped his mouth, before standing again to kiss her lips, allowing his hands to work their way down her front, skilfully undoing her jacket. Each button popped open easily at his touch, and he quickly pulled the garment over her slender arms, tossing it aside onto the floor. “Be careful with my clothes!” Yennefer scolded, half-annoyed, but found her protests quickly stifled with another hungry kiss.

Geralt grinned into her lips as he next unlaced her low-cut blouse, sliding it down her shoulders as well before tossing it aside to join the jacket on the floor. With her shirt now gone, Yennefer found her breasts exposed to the chill tavern air, her petal-pink nipples already standing erect as Geralt leaned down to suck them, and, grabbing the witcher’s shirttail, Yennefer yanked it over his head as he bent, throwing it aside to join the other clothes before starting to work on the clasp of his pants. His trousers popped open with almost no effort, his erect member clearly aching to be seen, and she quickly released the garment to his hands, allowing him to haphazardly kick off his boots before pulling off his pants and undergarment with one motion.

Kicking his trousers aside, Geralt bent down to help the sorceress out of her boots as well, kissing the inside of each thigh as he worked, unzipping the expensive leather and sliding it off before carefully setting it aside with the rest. He knew how much Yennefer liked those boots, and how upset she would be if anything were to happen to them, so he took special care with them, even as he could feel the first trickles of precum start to drip onto his thigh in anticipation of what was to come. Once her boots were no longer an obstacle, Yennefer quickly stepped out of her pants and panties, kicking them aside to join the rest, too caught up to concern herself with the wrinkles they were sure to get. With that done, Geralt began to kiss his way up Yennefer’s body, starting at her thighs, and then her supple hips, his hungry lips lingering as he nipped his teeth softly against her ivory skin, and Yennefer watched as he worked his way up her torso, his winter beard tickling her navel as he kissed in a circle around it.

“Missed you so much,” Geralt told her, breathlessly, moving his hands to take hold of her hips. His lips travelled over her ribcage next, taking time to kiss each individual bone, before he found his way to her breasts, allowing his mouth to travel over each nipple, sucking on each one before nipping at it gently with a soft growl, just hard enough to warrant a shudder from the sorceress. As much as she usually berated him for his animalistic tendencies, he found that the bedroom was one place she did not seem to mind the more wild aspects of his witcherly nature, and he grinned, wide and wild like a wolf, as he kissed his way across her collar-bone, pressing his lips to the side of her neck before dragging his teeth gently across the soft, perfect skin.

“Did you miss me too?” he asked, pressing another, harder, hungrier kiss to the side of her neck, causing her to moan again as his hand found her supple breast, beginning to massage it. His rough thumb trailed over her sensitive nipple, causing her to bite her lip, stifling a whimper, and Geralt grinned again, loving every noise he managed to wrest from the usually stalwart sorceress. His stiff cock trailed idly across her stomach as he finally stood to his full height again, kissing her neck and the underside of her jaw, before nipping playfully at her ear, breathing hot and heavy into it as he moved to begin kissing her lips instead – those perfect lips he had missed so dearly, and had dreaded he might never kiss again.

“I love you,” Geralt breathed, not waiting for her answer. “Don’t leave me again, Yen. Can’t stand it. Was so lonely without you.”

“I imagine you weren’t so very lonely,” Yennefer teased him, her humour biting, and he raked his teeth over her lip in response, causing her to moan as he silenced her with another kiss. His thumb trailed precariously over the pale skin of her throat, making her shudder at the implied danger of the touch, and, breaking free of the kiss, Yennefer gasped for breath, her dark lashes fluttering over her violet eyes as she reached out to run her fingers over the taut, scarred map of his body, taking in every mark and blemish she had long ago come to know by heart. “I thought time apart would be best for us,” she admitted, her voice breathy, strained, gasping for air between desperate kisses as his mouth all but fought to devour hers again. “And it was, in a way. We’ve each seen what we would be missing without the other. We’ve seen it to be too much to bear—”

“No more talk,” Geralt insisted, reaching down to hoist her up under her thighs, causing her to gasp in surprise as he lifted her to wrap her legs around his waist. Moving to the makeshift vanity, he pushed everything off onto the floor, clearing it for use before propping Yennefer against the counter and starting to kiss her neck again, forcing her to press her naked back into the cold glass of the mirror. Yennefer gasped at the frigid sensation, but quickly recovered from the shock, wrapping her arms around Geralt’s neck and pulling him in close before spreading her legs to welcome him inside. Bracing himself against the vanity, Geralt slid eagerly inside her, feeling the sorceress shudder around him as she enveloped him down to the base. She moaned with delight as she rode him, rocking, pressing her soft breasts against his chest with every thrust, and he gripped her hips, digging his fingers into her skin.

“Oh… Geralt…!” Yennefer exclaimed, breathless, the only words she could manage.

“Yeah… say my name,” Geralt answered, growling, before thrusting inside her again, his fingers digging harder into the shapely curve of her ass. Sliding his hand further down her ass, he slipped two fingers up between her cheeks, grinning as he felt her give a short jolt at the sensation, letting out a high-pitched gasp before moaning again as she settled into the newness of his touch. She had been penetrated like this before, letting him fill two holes at once, but it had been so long since the last time they had done it that she had almost forgotten what it felt like. As he pressed up further inside with his fingers, she moaned again, approvingly, biting hard on her lower lip, her eyes nearly rolling to the back of her head as she rocked against his body, wanting more.

“Tell me you missed me,” Geralt insisted, huffing as he drove his cock inside her warmth, rocking his hips against hers, feeling their sweat mingling on his thighs as the sound of their skin colliding filled the air. “Tell me you thought about me every day. As much as I thought about you.”

“You’re certainly full of yourself,” Yennefer teased, breathless, what laughter she could manage through her ecstasy coming out only in short, winded huffs. “You can’t know that for sure. What if I told you… I hardly thought about you at all in our time apart?”

“I’d say you’re a liar,” Geralt returned, his voice guttural, causing an excited shudder to run through Yennefer’s frame at the promise of danger. “And you know what happens to liars.” Pulling out, he grabbed her up under the thighs again, lifting her off the vanity with an exclamation of surprise and a giddy laugh from the sorceress. Then, turning to the small dining-table in the room, he set her down on the edge of it, before flipping her over, exposing her shapely ass to the air. Spitting into his palm, he began to rub the saliva over his cock, wetting it, only to look up in surprise as he heard a scoff of disapproval from the sorceress, finding Yennefer looking back at him over her shoulder with an expression of incredulity. Only Yennefer could manage to switch so easily between sensual and critical without missing a beat, he thought, and he found that in itself to be strangely arousing as she pointed towards the bed in the corner of the tavern room.

“There’s lubricating oil in my bedside table,” Yennefer told him, as practical as if she were asking for an ingredient for a potion. “Use that. Don’t try to come in without preparation.”

Geralt grunted at the instruction, placing his hands on her shapely hips and kissing the curve of her spine. “Don’t know that I can wait that long,” he returned, his voice low, still playing on the gruff tone that had gotten such a positive reaction from her earlier. But not even that seemed to work, as he found his hand quickly swatted off her hip, and she turned to face him, propping herself against the edge of the table with a censorious glare.

“You _will_ use the oil, or I _will_ cast a withering charm on your equipment,” Yennefer told him, clearly in no mood for his teasing. “I won’t be ignored on this, Geralt. And get my cleansing decoction while you’re at it.”

Geralt smirked at her stubbornness, leaning in to steal another kiss before starting to head for the bedside table. “Like it when you take charge,” he told her, nearly purring the words as he opened the drawer, starting to rummage around for the aforementioned lubricant.

Yennefer huffed, seeming less genuinely annoyed by his antics than she would have him believe, glancing over her shoulder as she took a moment to salvage her tousled mane. “Good,” she answered, shortly, combing her fingers absentmindedly through her wild ebony hair. “You should be used to it by now.”

“I am,” Geralt returned, his smirk widening at the back-and-forth. “Still love it, though.” For a woman as meticulous as Yennefer, she certainly kept a wild assortment of things in her bedside table – but even so it did not take long for him to locate the bottles she had requested. The lubricating oil was the easiest to identify – a small, tulip-shaped vial of dark purple glass stoppered with a cork that resembled an elegant, twisting flame – but the cleansing liquid was simple enough to recognize as well: a green glass vial in the shape of a medicinal ampoule, with a thick cork stoppering it from accidental contamination. Pouring out a fair amount of lubricant into his palm, enough that he figured he would have no risk of unintentionally harming Yennefer, he stoppered the purple vial again, before starting to rub the oil on his erect member, trying to suppress a shudder at the strangeness of the sensation.

It was only ever with sorceresses that he was made to take measures like this; sorceresses were high-maintenance, and spent a fairly large amount of time and magical energy perfecting their bodies, and while it made sense that they did not want anyone like him coming along and spoiling that with his lack of sexual courtesy, it still made him feel a bit out of sorts whenever Yennefer or Triss made him oil down before they allowed him to take his preferred liberties.

Making his way back to Yennefer, Geralt set both vials aside on the table for her to see, running his hands over her feminine hips and drawing her in for a deep, breathless kiss before turning her around against the table again and taking hold of her shapely ass. With a grunt of pleasure, he slid his way inside, causing Yennefer to gasp he pushed up inside her, pulling back on her hips as he rocked forward with his own. The sorceress let out a long, low groan, her dark hair falling to cover her face in silky curtains as she dropped her head closer to the table, and in almost no time they were fucking again, just as enthusiastically as before on the vanity. Yennefer cried out in pleasure as Geralt drove into her from behind, his hands gripped firmly on her curvy backside, both rocking with the motion as he pushed up inside her, harder and faster, until the table she was leaning on shook with the vigour of their lovemaking.

The sound of rattling table fixtures mixed with the moans and cries of the sorceress, creating a chaotic cacophony that made Geralt’s lusty heart race with excitement. He drove in again, more enthusiastic than before, letting out a soft, rumbling chuckle as he cleared her dark hair from the back of her neck, leaning in to kiss her lovely spine as he fucked her from behind. “Don’t stop,” Yennefer panted, digging her nails into the wood of the table as one of Geralt’s thrusts caused a wine goblet to knock over, rolling across the tabletop before clanging loudly onto the tavern-room floor. Another few thrusts caused the plates on the table to rattle, one sliding dangerously close to the edge, only to be beaten to the floor by a set of forks, clattering noisily off the table as it quaked and rocked under the remaining setting-ware.

“Marry me,” Geralt breathed, thrusting into her again, his words hot against the back of her neck as he spoke.

Yennefer paused at the appeal, wincing a bit as an elaborate candlestick toppled over onto the tabletop at their fucking, clanging loudly against one of the plates, threatening to break the earthenware in two. “What was that?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder, bracing as she continued to rock against the table, rattling what few settings still remained. “Did you just ask me to marry you? If you’re going to do that, at least turn me over and ask me properly.”

“Can’t,” Geralt answered, swallowing hard, panting too much to properly articulate. “Not done yet.”

“Don’t finish back there, Geralt,” Yennefer objected, clenching her fist as another wine goblet rolled noisily from the table to the floor. “You know that makes a mess. Finish on yourself, then we can clean it off easily before going again.”

“Don’t want to,” Geralt panted, gripping her shapely hips between his palms, leaning forward to kiss the ivory nape of her neck as he pushed up inside her as forcefully as before. “Marry me, Yen.”

“And what if I say no?” Yennefer returned, sucking in a breath as she felt him nip playfully at the back of her neck, her pristine fingernails digging into the table as she was pounded vigorously against it. “Then what will you do?”

“Ask you again,” Geralt responded, breathlessly. “And if you say no again, I’ll keep asking until you change your mind.”

“And what if I never change my mind?” Yennefer asked.

Geralt grunted at the question, squeezing her perfect ass between his hands, thrusting deeper and grinning as she gave a sharp gasp of pleasure at the motion. “Doesn’t matter,” he answered, disengaging, breathless and soaking with sweat. Grabbing up the cleansing decoction, he popped open the cork, letting it roll away on the floor as he picked up a cloth napkin they had not managed to knock off the table with their fucking. Then, wetting the napkin with the decoction, he wiped his member down, thorough and clean, before setting both aside and leaning in to kiss Yennefer’s neck again, his still-erect cock pressing hard into her back as she turned to face him, taking him firmly by the face and directing his kiss to her lips instead. Geralt breathed heavily against her mouth as he drank deeply from her proffered lips, his firm hands finding her ass again to give it another squeeze, feeling her give a small jump at the motion before he tucked his hands under her milky thighs, lifting her up and around his waist once more.

Yennefer’s arms wrapped around his neck as he picked her up, holding him tight, her thighs encasing him in a cocoon of warmth as he slid her down once again over his erect cock. Then, pushing her up against the nearest wall, he began to fuck her against it, working his hardest to wrest every moan and gasp he could wrangle from her perfect body. Yennefer gripped tight to the witcher’s back as they fucked, dragging her nails across his weathered skin, his hands leaving pink marks against her ass as he gripped her as tight as he had ever done before. She exclaimed at the fervent sensation, laughing, tilting her head back to expose her soft throat, her breaths coming out in desperate, whimpering moans as she rocked and bounced with the force of his passion.

“Marry me,” Geralt gasped between thrusts, pressing his lips to her collar-bone, her throat, under her jaw, her ear – anywhere he could reach with his desperate, hungry mouth. “Marry me, Yen. We’ll settle down. Live in Toussiant. Grow old and fat together.”

“You’re a witcher,” Yennefer pointed out, breathlessly, shaking her head as she was pressed up against the wall again. “I’m a sorceress. It could never work. People like us… we aren’t meant to be happy.”

“But I _want_ to be happy,” Geralt insisted, breathing hard against her neck. “And I know you do too. I’ve read your letters. And those books you read… I’ve seen them. I’ve read them, too.” Yennefer looked surprised at this, her expression easy to read despite the pleasure still written all over her face. That was a fair reaction, he supposed; the idea of him sitting down to read was strange enough as it was, but the thought of him reading the smutty, perfumed romance novels Yennefer sometimes indulged in was a phenomenon that bordered on blasphemous. “Wanted to know what you liked,” he explained, pressing his thumbs into her thighs as he readjusted his grip. “What piqued your interest. I know now. You want to be happy as much as I do.”

“I never took you for a romantic, Geralt,” Yennefer laughed, the sound reedy and breathless as she rocked up against the wall again. “But you know as well as I the world would never let us be. It’s just not realistic.”

“_Fuck_ the world,” Geralt growled, giving another sharp thrust, causing Yennefer to audibly gasp at the motion, a shock of pleasure coursing down her thighs and into his pulsing body. “I don’t care. Tired of being realistic.” He began to thrust faster at this, more fervently, feeling the wet heat of Yennefer’s body against his cock as he drove inside her, her legs shuddering with unmasked pleasure as she gripped his muscular form. Her nails cut deep into the flesh of his back as he fucked her, her whimpers and moans making him sweat, driving him wild, his fingers digging into her hips as he rocked her up against the wall. Leaning her head back, Yennefer shouted in ecstasy, her raven locks cascading wildly off her shoulders as her perfect breasts bounded with every thrust, and Geralt pressed his lips to her exposed neck, needing her, wanting her, tasting the sweat of her ivory skin. Her flavour was intoxicating on his tongue as he kissed her, harder, devouring every inch of her he could find.

“We don’t need the world, Yen,” he told her, panting, barely finding time to catch his breath between kisses. “All we need is you and me. Don’t you want to be happy with me?”

Yennefer swallowed, thinking about it a moment. “Ask me again,” she finally answered, breathless.

“Ask you what?” Geralt asked, feeling the telltale, white-hot sensation of orgasm starting to build in his stomach again as he thrusted. “If you want to be happy?”

“No,” Yennefer answered, shaking her head. “The other thing. Ask—_oh!_ Ask me again… about Toussaint…”

Geralt grunted, breathing heavily, burying his face in the soft hair at her neck as he thrust inside again with a wracking shudder. “Gonna come,” he announced, panting, his fingers digging into her thighs, hard enough that he was sure the sorceress would have bruises in the shape of his hands come morning.

“No,” Yennefer insisted, taking hold of his face and forcing him to look up at her again. “You’ll propose to me first. Then you can come.”

She was playing with fire and Geralt loved it, even as his body gave a shock of objection, and he gritted his teeth, feeling a froth of spittle start to seep between his lips as he fought to obey. “Marry me, Yennefer of Vengerberg,” he repeated, breathing hard against her lips as he slowed, trying his hardest to push back the burning sensation fighting to rip its way through him, but still unable to keep from stealing every kiss his weary mouth could manage. “Move with me to Toussaint. We’ll live out the rest of our days on our vineyard. We’ll vanish from the world. Cut all contacts. Change our names. Disappear. Just you and me.”

He stopped as a jolt of pain coursed through him, causing him to grunt, and then huff, breathing heavily as his sturdy legs began to shake weakly beneath him. “We can finally be happy,” he continued, undeterred, even as his voice began to crack into painful hiccups. “Live the life we always wanted. The life we thought we could never have. The life we deserve. The life _you_ deserve.” He breathed in again, heavily, pressing his face against her cheek as he gave another slow, agonizing thrust. “Say you’ll marry me,” he breathed, almost silently, gasping up breath and saliva as he spoke, not even realizing he had started to drool ever so slightly in his pain.

Yennefer smiled, wiping the trickle of spit from his mouth with her thumb, before bringing her lips to his to kiss him again, acknowledging his valiant effort. “Yes,” she told him, leaning in to press her forehead to his. “I will marry you, Geralt of Rivia.” The sound Geralt made when he finally came was like nothing Yennefer had ever heard, and she nearly laughed at the strangeness of it all, at the sound and everything that had led up to it – his unexpected visit and subsequent proposal, and the resulting wreckage of what had once been a lovely, accommodating room. She kissed his face as he shuddered beneath her, the last shocks of aftermath vibrating through him as he slowly lowered her back to the floor, holding her upright as her own numb legs attempted to readjust to the world of before.

“I love you, Geralt,” Yennefer told him, barely speaking above a whisper, trailing her fingers languorously across the wintery scruff of his beard. “I can’t wait to start our new life together. To be happy with you. Live out our days together. Forever.”

“Forever is a very long time,” Geralt joked, breathing heavily, taking her hand from his face to kiss her delicate fingertips. “Especially for a witcher.”

“Or a sorceress,” Yennefer agreed, offering a wry smile at the observation.


	2. Baby's Breath

The light from the master fireplace bathed the front-room of Corvo Bianco in a warm, orange glow, the tinkling of the rain on the manor’s tiled roof and the pattering of drops against its windowpanes barely audible over the thoughtful crackling of the flames. Geralt had returned from Beauclair just as the first drops of rain had begun to fall, hurried home by the sound of approaching thunder, and had managed to dry off in no time at all before requesting Yennefer join him for supper. His contracts, though easier in Toussaint than they had been back home, still left him tired and hungry after a day’s work, and though it had been a little over three months since they had first moved to the countryside, the joy of joining his wife in a meal after all was said and done was still not something Geralt had grown used to, nor something he felt he would ever grow tired of the novelty of.

Marlene had prepared a fine meal for the evening: warm soup to counter the cold of the rain, made with the meat of some small, sweet bird, paired with perfumed rice, steamed greens, an assortment of grapes from the vineyard’s own gardens, a spread of artisanal bread and cheese, and a bottle of White Wolf to wash it all down. Geralt was still unused to the idea of sitting down to a home-cooked meal, and he paused as the smell wafted up to greet him, offering a grateful nod to Marlene before she disappeared back into the kitchen again. Yennefer sipped at her glass of wine, her violet eyes raising to the gentle patter of raindrops against the roof of the manor, before she turned her attention to Geralt again, watching as he finished off his first glass in what seemed like one breath before starting in on his soup.

It had been a long day for him, no doubt, and she could not blame him for indulging; despite living in an estate like Corvo Bianco, he was still a witcher, and his table manners left something to be desired. She had taught him long ago to eat poultry with a fork and knife, and though he had retained that habit well, even without her present to enforce it, there were still certain aspects of his personality she found she could not so easily change – nor, she thought, did she particularly want to. It was nice that he retained a certain wildness, she thought; it reminded her of the first time they had met. He had been so coarse then, so brutish, so very different from everything she had ever known. He had challenged her, pushed back against her, something she was unused to, and something which had made it impossible for her to walk away from him ever after, no matter how she might have tried.

“And what was it this time?” Yennefer asked, lifting her glass to her lips again, allowing it to linger a moment before taking a sip as she waited with amused, bated breath for the answer.

Geralt grunted at the question, finishing off a bite of soup. “Vampires,” he answered, looking up with a short snort of a chuckle, his own lips curving faintly in an incredulous grin as he reached to pour himself another glass of wine. “Or, they thought it was vampires. Everyone’s still spooked about them. Think every bump in the night is a bruxa or a katakan.”

“And was it vampires?” Yennefer asked, taking a sip of wine.

Geralt chuckled again, picking up his own glass, swirling the wine around in the basin before taking a swig and setting it down again with a satisfied exhale. “No,” he answered, shaking his head. “Rarely is these days. Waited in the graveyard to catch the beast… found two young lovers instead. Howling from the catacombs was just them, fucking on all the stone caskets. Looking for thrills.” He grinned at the memory of the last night’s events, ladling his wide spoon through his soup as he searched for a satisfactory chunk of meat. “Apparently they thought the catacombs were sound-proof,” he added, finally picking up a bite. “No idea why. No reason to sound-proof the dead.”

“Perhaps they should start looking into it,” Yennefer suggested, taking another amused sip of wine. “I can’t say I’ve ever had an inclination to fuck in a graveyard, surrounded by corpses, but… there is a certain undeniable thrill to the idea. Perhaps these young lovers were onto something after all.”

“Graveyards are usually full of monsters,” Geralt pointed out, still chewing. “Ghouls. Alghouls. Wraiths. Grave hags.”

“Close your mouth when you eat, please,” Yennefer told him. “And I was only saying. Though it’s just like a witcher to take the fun out of everything.”

Geralt shook his head, taking another bite of soup, before washing it down with a piece of bread and another gulp of White Wolf. “That was my point,” he told her, grinning, his golden eyes impish with firelight. “Beauclair’s graveyard is clean. Barely any monsters. Only ever encountered ghosts there, and I sent them away a while ago.” Picking up another piece of bread, he tore it in half, dipping it in his soup, before putting the whole thing in his mouth, waiting until he finished chewing before continuing his explanation. “They perfume the area so the smell doesn’t permeate,” he said, dipping the second half of his bread in the soup as well. “Doesn’t attract ghouls.”

“So are you saying we could…?” Yennefer asked, her own eyes bright with excitement.

Geralt nodded, finishing his second piece of bread, making sure to swallow before he answered. “If you want,” he told her, picking up his spoon again. “If you’ve grown so tired of our marital bed. And the beds upstairs. And the dining-table, the stuffed unicorn… the wine cellar, the stables…”

“Alright, Geralt, you’ve made your point,” Yennefer laughed, holding up a hand to stop him. “No need to continue. I was merely curious, was all.”

“I didn’t say no,” Geralt pointed out, smirking.

Yennefer set down her wine glass at the comment, picking up her spoon instead. “Hmm,” she answered. “In that case I’ll think about it. Did you at least get paid for the contract, vampires or no?”

Geralt nodded at the question, taking a bite of soup, careful not to slurp to avoid further scolding. “Yeah,” he said, skimming his spoon through the broth to look for more meat. “Got paid twice. Once by the lovers for not ratting them out, and once by the contract-giver for taking care of the howler in the night.”

“You always were clever like that,” Yennefer returned, taking a dainty bite of her own soup.

Geralt licked his lips, setting his spoon aside to instead pick up his entire soup-bowl, intent on drinking what was left of the broth. “Clever enough to reward with a tryst in the catacombs?” he asked, grinning.

Yennefer pondered a moment, watching as Geralt drank the remainder of his soup straight before setting down his bowl again with a satisfied exhale. “I’ll think about it,” she finally answered, already knowing well what the result would be. She had to make him work for things like this, she knew, or he would think he could get anything by simply asking – far too simple a solution for their particular relationship, as far as she was concerned.

Geralt chuckled at the answer, sitting back in his chair and stretching out his long legs under the table. “And what about you?” he asked, looking up at her again with the lazy eyes of a well-fed housecat. “What were you up to while I was aw—” But the question did not have time to fully form on his lips before it was interrupted by the sound of a knock at the door, causing both Geralt and Yennefer to look up in surprise from their until-then peaceful supper. It was not a loud knock, or a particularly authoritative one; whoever was at the door was likely there with a request, rather than a demand. It was not unheard of for people from town to come to Corvo Bianco during the day, either to ask for assistance from one or both of them or to broker some deal concerning the vineyard and the wine it produced. What was strange, then, was the fact that not only was it dark outside – far too dark for normal travellers – but the rain driving down on the roof was unmistakeable, the sound of thunder and shivering winds causing the windows to vibrate and hum.

Geralt stared at the door for a moment, watchful, as if hoping he might see through to the other side if he only stared hard enough at its polished surface. Then, looking back at Yennefer again, he frowned, his apprehension clear in his yellow eyes. “Were you expecting guests?” he asked, keeping his voice low, not wanting to be overheard by whoever was standing outside. Yennefer shook her head, her gaze fixed on the door, as if waiting for something else to happen, some other telltale sign that might better apprise them of who now stood outside. A long pause followed the mysterious knock, a silence permeated only by the rain, before the knock repeated itself again, this time a bit more insistent than before.

Pushing his chair back, Geralt stood from the table, instinctively glancing towards the master bedroom, wondering for a moment if he should grab his swords before answering whatever was at the door. If it was a monster, he thought, it would not knock so politely – unless it was one that required an invitation in. If that were the case, then a simple sword would not be any good against so specialized a beast. A third knock followed not long after the first two, the visitor clearly growing impatient with being made to wait, and Geralt felt Yennefer’s hand on his arm as she stood from the table as well.

“Be careful, Geralt,” she hissed, eyes wide, before letting go of his arm again, allowing him to finally make his way towards the door to investigate who might be waiting on the other side.

The latches bolting the door clanked loudly as he undid them, one by one, until he finally pulled the door open, staring out into the rain at whoever – or whatever – now stood on their doorstep. A single figure stood shivering in the cold night air outside their door, its hood pulled down over its eyes to avoid recognition, but even in the darkness and the rain, Geralt could still make out that their visitor was much smaller than he had anticipated. The visitor was petite, cloak soaked to their skin, revealing a small, feminine form that Geralt was surprised to see – and at the sound of the door opening, the figure looked up, seeming relieved that someone was home to answer, before reaching up and pulling back the hood of their cloak, unveiling a mop of wet, fiery-red hair.

“Shani,” Geralt breathed, startled at the sight of her. He could feel Yennefer hovering curiously a few feet behind him, her nervous energy palpable as she stood just out of sight of the doorframe, half-hidden in the long, orange shadows cast over the walls by the dancing fireplace. Geralt frowned out at their unexpected visitor, sparing a glance up towards the dreary, weeping sky, before looking back down at Shani again, watching as she shivered in the soaking green cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her skin was nearly white with the cold, her cheeks and ears pink with the chill of the rain, but her face was one of only concern, sincere and apprehensive as she looked up at him from beneath the swath of bangs plastered to her face. “What—” Geralt started to speak again, but this time found himself quickly cut off by Shani raising a hand to stop him.

“Geralt, before you say anything, I have something to tell you,” she informed him. In spite of her shivering, her voice was firm, and Geralt found himself taken aback at her tone. It was unusual for Shani to speak this way; for as long as he had known her, he had heard her speak with this sort of intensity only once, back in Vizima, when she had expressed her distaste for Triss’ methods in taking care of the young Source, Alvin. Shani had grown quite fond of the boy, and saw him as her patient, someone who needed her help, rather than someone who should be exploited for the magical potential he possessed. Geralt had agreed with her reasoning at the time, but had still been concerned to hear the usually amicable doctoral student speak in such a commanding, critical tone – and while the tone she used now was not quite as harsh as that one had been, he still could not help feeling a bit on edge as he waited for her to continue.

Taking a deep breath, Shani lifted her chin, drawing her wet cloak tighter around her shoulders, and for a moment Geralt considered inviting her in from the rain, suggesting she dry out in front of the fire before giving him whatever news she had come to deliver. But her next statement stole the words from under him completely, rendering his mind a blank, broken slate.

“Geralt, I’m pregnant,” Shani told him. “It’s yours.”

Geralt stared at her for a moment, blinking slowly, his expression fixed. “…You what?” he finally asked, certain he had heard her incorrectly.

Shani frowned, pulling her cloak closer around her shoulders again, sighing as she shivered under its watery weight. “It’s yours,” she repeated, more insistently this time. “I’m pregnant. Can I come inside?” Her hazel gaze flicked to the house over his shoulder, taking in the warm, dry room beyond, before her eyes suddenly came to rest on Yennefer still standing just behind him, lingering like a curious spectre in his broad-shouldered wake. Shani’s already-pale face blanched at the sight of the sorceress, her eyes growing wide as she realized what she had done, before she looked back at Geralt again, retreating a step towards the vineyard behind her. “I shouldn’t have come,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Geralt. Yennefer. I’ll just go.”

Geralt said nothing, his head still spinning with what he had just been told, but he had no time to think of a response before he found himself roughly pushed aside, his footing nearly failing him as Yennefer fought to replace him in the doorway. “Geralt, MOVE!” Yennefer insisted, shoving him out of the way, before reaching out to take hold of Shani’s shoulders and pulling the doctor quickly inside. The sorceress clucked like a mother hen as she led Shani over towards the fireplace, taking her rain-soaked cloak from her shoulders and hanging it instead over a nearby armour-clad mannequin to dry. Geralt faltered as he watched the two, unsure whether he should join or stay; he could barely hear the tinkling of the raindrops on the tile roof as he stood in the open doorway, the driving patter on the leaves of the vineyard sounding muted and distant in his ears.

It was as if everything in reality had ceased to exist as he tried to process what Shani had told him, as if everything in his comfortable, familiar world had been turned upside-down in the span of a single moment. He could barely move, barely breathe, and had to keep reminding himself to blink; it was only the sound of Yennefer’s scolding that pulled him back to reality, and then only for a split second. Though he missed the content of her words, he could guess well enough what she was telling him to do, and so, shutting the door to keep out the rain, he began to move back towards the dining-table instead, walking slowly, before finally lowering himself into his regular chair and waiting in vain for his thoughts to settle.

The idea of pregnancy was simple enough, the concept straightforward in principle; not only that, but he had never had difficulty imagining Shani as a mother, whenever she decided the time was right. The thought of it happening now, however – and because of him – was an entirely different notion, and one he found too difficult to wrap his head around, no matter how he tried. It was simply impossible, he told himself. There was no way any of this was real. It was not in Shani’s nature to lie about this sort of thing, of course, but perhaps there was some way she could have misconstrued the signs, gotten it wrong. Perhaps she had gone back to Thaler after her night with Geralt at the wedding, and had simply miscounted the dates between their tryst and whatever had happened thereafter.

Thaler was the only one Geralt had ever known her to be with apart from him, and though she had not spoken of the spy in quite some time, he was unsure who else there was in her life she might have returned to. Perhaps she had met someone new, he thought. Someone nice. That was certainly preferable to the thought of Thaler, at the very least. The idea of the worm-like spy as a father made Geralt frown, and he could not help thinking that he almost preferred the idea of the child being his over belonging to someone whose loyalty came at the price of a handful of coins. He had seen Thaler slit a man’s throat for a warm place to sleep, and had been present when he and Djikstra had conspired to murder Radovid – a fact which made Geralt culpable by association, of course, but did not change the fact that the thought of Ducat siring children made his skin crawl.

Shani’s short red hair was nearly dry by the time Yennefer led her back to the dining-table, and Geralt watched as she combed at it with her fingers, trying distractedly to tame it down from its ruffled, fluffy state. She looked rather like a baby bird this way, he thought; puffy with its first soft down. He could not help noticing that Shani seemed to be avoiding eye contact with him as she sat, staring down at her hands in front of her, only looking up again when Yennefer returned with two teacups and the kettle that had been brewing over the fire. Leaning back in his chair, Geralt watched as Yennefer poured the doctor a steaming cup of tea, before pulling a warm, dry shawl around Shani’s shoulders, fussing to herself as she combed the doctor’s overlong bangs away from her eyes. The sorceress’ usually striking voice was garbled and distant in Geralt’s ears as he turned Shani’s statement over and over in his mind, as if hoping it might somehow reveal its secrets if he just looked at it hard enough.

The idea of a baby was not unpleasant to him, nor entirely unwelcome; Yennefer had long wanted children of her own, for as far back as he could remember. He, himself had some time ago become acquainted with the thought of caring for a young ward, as that was an integral part of the life of a witcher: training the young to take the place of the old, all part of a natural progression. Ciri had been the closest thing Geralt had ever had to a daughter, and though he had struggled with her at times during her youth, he had quickly grown to love the child as dearly as if she were his own flesh and blood. He had pushed and trained Ciri like an adult at Kaer Morhen, but he had always adored the sound of her carefree laughter, something he had begun to miss more and more as she had gradually aged out of her childhood jovialities.

The thought of a proverbial empty nest syndrome seemed silly and sentimental to him, and not something he would have expected to experience – but Yennefer had been far more affected by Ciri’s leaving than Geralt might have anticipated, and though he hated to admit it to himself, so had he. The sound of little sparrow feet running the halls of Kaer Morhen was a thing of the far-off past now, and though he had done his best to put his feelings of melancholy on the subject to rest, he would still sometimes find Yennefer staring longingly out the window of their grandiose home, knowing full well that she was thinking about how very empty the house seemed, with so many rooms and no one but the two of them and their two house-helpers to fill them.

Shani’s fingers were slim and pale against the porcelain of her cup as Geralt looked up at her again, unable to help noticing, now that he could see her more clearly in the light of the fireplace, that she looked a bit thinner than she had the last time they had seen one another, only a few months prior. Her face was fuller, but her neck was slimmer, her clavicle more prominent against the pinkish-white of her skin. Reaching down to the cup in Shani’s hands, Yennefer tapped it gently with her index finger, heating it up with a touch of magic and causing a healthy curl of steam to waft from its gold-rimmed lip. Shani blew gently on the cup, cooling it enough to take a sip, before nodding in appreciation to the sorceress, using her free hand to pull the warm shawl a bit tighter around her rain-soaked shoulders.

“…Are you sure?” Geralt finally asked, breaking the silence, unsure what else there was to say.

Shani and Yennefer both looked up at the question, eyes wide, surprised, as if both had somehow forgotten that Geralt was also present at the table with them. Yennefer’s brow furrowed in annoyance at the interruption, her peachy lips pursing, but she said nothing, only stared at him as if he were a greedy, well-fed dog nosing for additional scraps at a busy table. “Am I sure of what?” Shani replied after a moment, glancing between Geralt and Yennefer, as if confused on what he could be looking to question. “That I’m pregnant? Or that it’s yours?”

Geralt faltered at the question, having not expected such a succinct response to his admittedly vague and baseline query. In truth, he had expected Yennefer to stop him before he got this far into the conversation, to tell him off, cut him short, belay all further interrogation with one of her patented jabs at how little he liked to take accountability for his actions. But the sorceress remained silent, her striking violet eyes resting squarely on his face, watching him closely, her soundless judgement boring holes in his psyche as he set his jaw, trying to decide how best to answer, now that he had the chance.

“…Both,” he finally answered, wishing, as soon as he said it, that he had had a better response. His cat-like gaze flicked momentarily to Yennefer, attempting to gage her reaction, before quickly returning to Shani again, hoping Yennefer had not spotted his moment of insecurity. But, as always, nothing got past Yennefer, and it seemed that one glance was all that had been needed to break her momentary stasis of silence.

Gripping the backrest of Shani’s chair, the sorceress bristled against the wooden frame, her violet eyes flashing with a ferocity that put the lightning outside to shame. “What kind of question is that?” she insisted, sharply, sounding more frustrated with his ignorance than angered by his brazen nerve. Geralt quickly looked up at her again at the outburst, his brows shooting upward in surprise, unable to help wondering, suddenly, if he might have been better off simply keeping his mouth shut until instructed to do otherwise. That would have been the wise thing to do, he realized – deep down, he felt as if he had somehow known that from the start – yet, as always, he never seemed keen to take his own advice until it was too late, and Yennefer was already down his throat about some stupid thing he had said, or some rash action he had taken. “You think a woman doesn’t know these things?”

Geralt wavered for a moment on his response, trying to figure out how best to undo the harm he had not meant to cause in the first place with what he had thought to be such a simple question. He supposed his assumption of its simplicity lay squarely in the fact that he had never been asked anything remotely similar, and so had no idea its propensity to offend for someone actually equipped to be insulted by it. It was only now that he realized how insensitive and crass it had likely sounded coming from him, not only to Shani, but to Yennefer, who had already formed some surrogate bond with the woman who claimed to be carrying a child she, herself had only ever dreamed of bringing into existence. Frowning again, he grunted, thoughtfully, keeping his gaze fixed solemnly on Yennefer’s, the hand that had been fidgeting at the edge of his armrest clenching over his thumb in remorse.

“I didn’t… mean it like that,” Geralt finally answered, quietly.

Shani sighed softly at the back and forth, holding her teacup poised under her chin, allowing the warmth of the liquid to waft gently over her chilly pink nose and cheeks as she waited for her hosts to pause long enough for her to insert a thought into the conversation. “It’s okay, Yennefer,” she finally interjected, taking the first opportunity to speak up again, causing both Geralt and Yennefer to turn their attention to her as she spoke. Taking another sip of her tea, she wet her lips, setting her cup down on the table in front of her, before taking a deep breath and looking up at Geralt again, locking her large, soft hazel eyes with his much harsher golden ones. “To answer your question, Geralt – yes, I’m sure,” she told him, matter-of-factly, causing his brow to furrow deeper at the implication. “Of both things. I’m a physician, I can recognize the signs. Even if… I’d rather convince myself otherwise. Believe me, I tried to find any other explanation in the world for it. Especially considering, well…”

At this, Yennefer’s expression changed as well, shifting quickly from annoyance with Geralt to confused concern as she looked down towards the younger woman again, drawing the warm shawl a bit more securely around Shani’s rain-dampened shoulders. “Yes, I admit I was wondering that myself,” she responded, her voice much softer now that she was speaking to Shani. “Not that I don’t trust your judgement, only that… it’s a bit hard to understand how it could happen, considering…”

“The Trials render all witchers sterile,” Geralt quickly completed the thought, grateful someone else had brought the topic to relevance before he had to bring it up himself. Yennefer was already annoyed enough with him as it was with the way he had been acting towards Shani since her arrival, but that particular fact had been on the tip of his tongue since the start of her visit. He had simply been waiting for an opportunity to bring it up where it would not immediately result in him being torn apart for a lack of sensitivity, but that moment had seemed unwilling to come, until he felt he was nearly fit to burst.

Letting out a soft sigh, Yennefer turned her violet eyes up to Geralt again, clearly irritated with his obvious eagerness to bring the topic up in their current conversation. “…Yes,” she returned, much more deadpan than before. “So you like to keep telling people.”

“That’s what I know,” Shani responded, matter-of-factly, tapping one slender finger against the edge of her teacup, seeming to ignore the acerbic back and forth between her gracious hosts, a decision Geralt was grateful for, if quietly. “That’s what was confusing me, too. So I did some research when I got back to Oxenfurt, and while I was looking in the archives, I uncovered some documents from a few years back detailing an experimental alchemical trial that was done by a couple of, erm…” She hesitated, sucking thoughtfully on her rose-petal lips, before letting out a soft, faintly bewildered-sounding breath, her gaze dropping to a spot on the tablecloth not currently covered by food or expensive setting-ware.

“Well,” she said. “_Independent researchers_, I guess, would be the polite way of putting it. _Crackpots_ is what most people would call them. Their experiments were originally funded by Oxenfurt Academy, as their thesis sounded promising, but it seemed they were actually experimenting their concoctions on unwitting townsfolk, unbeknownst to the ones in charge of the funding. They were trying to find a cure for sterility using mutagens from beasts known to have developed biological workarounds to continue reproducing in situations or environments where it would be difficult or impossible for creatures less… biologically inclined, to do the same.”

“Hermaphroditic monsters,” Geralt put in, tapping his finger pensively against the tabletop.

“A few hermaphroditic monsters were part of the focus, yes… among others, according to the research,” Shani agreed, turning her gaze up to meet his again, causing him to pause as his eyes met suddenly with hers. She really was a lovely woman, he thought; between her fiery-red hair, her rosy cheeks, and her soft, intelligent voice, it was no surprise he had fallen for her charms on their first meeting all those years ago, nor that he had fallen for her all over again the night of her friend’s wedding. In another world, in a different life, he might have convinced himself he could be happy with her – but not this world, or this life. In this life, he loved Yennefer, and any romantic feelings he might have had for Shani had faded with the last rosiness of wine and vodka from their cheeks after the end of the wedding festivities. He could only see Shani as a friend now, someone for whom he still cared deeply, but not someone he would ever have thought to ask to be the mother of his child, even if he had known the possibility existed.

It had nothing to do with her as a person – Shani was incredible, brilliant and beautiful, but Geralt knew she was a woman with a life of her own, a life he would never have been so selfish to ask her to put on hold for his sake, even as a friend. The fact that it had happened entirely by accident did not make him feel any better in the matter; if anything, it made him feel worse, knowing he had walked away and disappeared on her all over again after the events of the wedding, essentially leaving her to deal with the consequences of an action he had not given any thought might have significance beyond a simple tryst at the lake. Even now, it was bizarre to think he was speaking so casually about the mating habits of monsters with her, knowing full well her primary interest in them had been in trying to figure out how she could have been inadvertently impregnated by a witcher.

“They used not only monster mutagens, but other ingredients from witcher potions,” Shani continued, drawing Geralt sharply back to reality, quickly shaking the last cobwebs of thoughts about the wedding from his mind. “Essentially making experimental witcher concoctions in an effort to alter pre-existing genetic conditions by introducing mutation-inducing materials into the human biological system. Unfortunately, as everyone knows, witcher potions are much too strong for the common man… many became incredibly ill or even died as a result of their experiments.”

Setting her teacup down in front of her again, Shani stared intently into its shallow basin, her pretty brow furrowing as she tapped a thoughtful finger against the edge of the cup. “Once the board found out what they were doing, their research was deemed inhumane and an abuse of scholarly resources,” she said, thinning her lips at what Geralt figured was the idea of such heinous intentional malpractice. “They were disavowed by most accredited medical academia… but not before they found a subject they believed would be able to successfully prove the viability of their research.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, suspecting he already knew what revelation was coming next. He glanced up at Yennefer, gaging her expression, attempting to decipher from her well-honed poker face if she already knew the answer to this simplistic riddle as well. He supposed accepting mystery potions from strangers was not the worst thing he had done during his days spent wandering in an amnesiatic fog, but he was still not looking forward to having to listen to Yennefer tell him how asinine he was for doing it. She was right, of course – she always was, when it came to these things – but he still could not help dreading hearing it being told so frankly to his face.

“Their experiments were technically outlawed, but it seemed they continued to keep tabs on their last test subject in an effort to prove their research had academic merit that overshadowed its inhumane methodology,” Shani continued, tracing her fingertip absentmindedly across the edge of her teacup, her gaze fixed thoughtfully on Geralt as she spoke, as if waiting for him to volunteer his obvious involvement in the topic at hand. “The last logs before they stopped updating – likely due to being arrested or killed, I’m not sure which – seemed to indicate that they had been observing the effects on a witcher they had met in Flotsam, who they anticipated would experience long-term results from taking their concoction, as it had not had any immediate effects.”

“A witcher in Flotsam?” Yennefer repeated, turning to glance over at Geralt as well. Geralt quickly looked up at Yennefer in return, meeting her gaze, already feeling the burning judgement of her violet stare against his weary conscience even as he waited for the other shoe to drop. “You wouldn’t happen to have travelled through Flotsam in that time, would you, Geralt?” Yennefer asked, making no effort to hide the tone in her voice that made it clear she had already decided his answer for him, judging him for his actions before he had even had a chance to open his mouth. To most, he supposed that kind of thing would seem unfair, but Yennefer had spent so many years getting to know him, learning his intimate ins and outs, suffering through his too-often rash actions and poor decisions, that doing things this way was simply the easier option a majority of the time. “A few years ago would have been during the time you were travelling with Triss, I believe.”

“It’s possible,” Geralt answered, bluntly, shrugging one shoulder as he reached across the table towards a cluster of grapes, grabbing it off one of the silver platters and pulling it back towards his own dinner-plate. “I’ve been a lot of places. Flotsam is probably one of them.” Twisting a grape off the larger cluster, he tossed it into his mouth, causing Yennefer to make a face, as if offended he could even think about food at a time like this. Then, letting out another sigh, Yennefer turned her attention back to Shani instead, finally moving out from behind the medic’s chair to retake her own seat one to the left of her at the table, bookending her between her unusual hosts.

“It figures,” Yennefer responded, sounding more resigned to Geralt’s answer than annoyed by it. “Had you been with me at the time, I would never have permitted you to take a random concoction from a stranger on the street.”

“Hm,” Geralt returned, pulling another cluster of grapes from the bushel in his hand and bringing them to his mouth as well. “Sadly you weren’t around to reference for an opinion.”

Yennefer made a face at his response, one edge of her pristine nose pulling back towards her cheek in an expression of weary pique. Then, giving a soft, dismissive huff, she turned her attention away from the witcher again, instead reaching across the table to pick up the teapot, taking a moment to refill Shani’s cup before returning dutifully to the topic at hand. “Let’s not get into whose fault these things are,” she stated, decisively, but Geralt had a feeling this would not be the last he would be hearing of this topic from her. “Geralt, did you take a potion from a person on the street in Flotsam?”

“I think so,” Geralt answered, matter-of-factly, no longer in the mood for games. It was the best answer he could give, considering how little he remembered of that time in his life, but he was fairly certain it was accurate. One did not so easily forget being approached on the street and asked to down a mysterious potion, particularly a potion as strong as the one he had imbibed. It had been a witcher potion for sure, that much he had recognized from the start, but he had been too distracted by every other task still at hand to register exactly what it had accomplished. The toxicity had taken a while to wear off, something he had noted as strange at the time, but once it had, he had all but forgotten about the encounter with two odd-duck chemists and their peculiar tonic.

He had met up with the same chemists again some time afterward, during the great conflict of Loc Muinne, but they had not mentioned any prospective effects of their potion at that time either – and so he had been content to assume that whatever effect the potion was meant to have had worn off as the initial toxicity had waned, as most witcher potions were wont to do.

“Yes, well, you’ll take anything that’s given freely, won’t you?” Yennefer observed, blunt and expressionless. “From anyone at all.” The deadpan razor’s edge in her voice gave Geralt an unwitting moment’s pause, and he quickly looked up at the sorceress again, feeling a blade of ice carve down his spine as he stared at her across the table, ever surprised at how vicious she could be all while sounding imperturbably even and polite. Turning her attention back to Shani, Yennefer folded her elegant hands on the table in front of her, poised and familiar, watching as the young doctor sipped her tea, pretending not to have noticed the unsubtle insult the sorceress had just dispersed upon both herself and the witcher.

“Was there anything more about the potion or its effects on the witcher?” Yennefer asked, turning the conversation coolly back to the topic at hand. “What did the observations say before they ceased updating?”

Shani wet her lips at the question, lowering her teacup slowly to the saucer in front of her, her pretty brow furrowing faintly as she thought on what to say in response. “Well, that’s just it,” she finally answered, turning her gaze up to meet Yennefer’s again. “The observations stopped over a year ago. There is no updated information after that to indicate whether anything came of the experiment. Only that they expected it to.”

“So you’re saying the experiment worked, then,” Geralt put in, the tone of his question emerging a bit gruffer than he had intended, making him immediately regret having asked it that way. Shani turned towards him at the question, raising her brows, and Yennefer looked up at him again as well, her expression much less understanding than her redheaded counterpart. “It couldn’t have been… anything else.”

Shani hesitated at the inquiry, her slender fingers fidgeting around the edge of her teacup as she slid her teeth across her pink lower lip, before she finally let out a soft, weary chuckle, sounding half amused by his lack of tact, half stunned he had not bothered to pull any punches. “Not that I don’t appreciate the_ subtlety_ of your implication of my loose morals, Geralt,” she answered, slowly, turning her soft hazel eyes back up to his face, “but I’m not sure what else to tell you. I hadn’t had relations with anyone for months before our… encounter, and haven’t had any since.” Her pretty mouth twitched faintly upward as she said this, her expression making it clear, despite her smile, that she was trying hard to hide hurt with humour, making Geralt wish dearly he had once again thought to keep his tactless mouth shut. “Unless you have some other explanation for what could have happened, I have to assume the only logical causation I have is the correct one.”

“Don’t be a boor, Geralt,” Yennefer interjected, sharply, causing him to quickly close his mouth again, now thoroughly discouraged from saying anything more to damage the situation further than he already had. Satisfied that their interruptions had ceased, Yennefer reached across the table, pulling a dainty teacup and saucer from the place-setting across from her before picking up the kettle that sat between her and Shani and starting to pour herself a calming cup of tea. “I’m afraid I’m painfully unversed in your accomplishments, Shani,” she admitted, looking up at the doctor again, before picking up her teacup and blowing on it to cool some steam from its peaceful surface. “I know you went to Oxenfurt, and I know you know Dandelion. I also know you helped Geralt find aid for young Alvin, back in Vizima. I was told that tale by Dandelion as well, come to think of it.”

Taking a sip of tea, she paused, setting her cup back in its saucer, allowing her hand to curl around its warmth as she thought about what she had been told. “He’s rather fond of you, you know,” she added, turning her violet gaze up to Shani again. “He talks quite highly of you. Quite favourably. I wonder, does he…?”

“Who, Dandelion? No,” Shani answered, quickly, shaking her head with a soft, fond laugh. “Julian is very sweet, but we’ve never been anything more than friends. I’m not sure I deserve whatever praise he’s given me, but his passion could never be contained.” Geralt gave a soft snort at this statement, earning a brief glance from both Shani and Yennefer, but Shani quickly diverted her eyes again, returning her attention to her cup of tea. “He’s always been a wonderful friend, regardless,” she added. “And I appreciate him for it. But we’re just friends.”

“He is a character, to be sure,” Yennefer agreed, passing a thoughtful finger over the scalloped rim of her cup. “But I doubt he exaggerated about you.” She paused, allowing Shani an opportunity to drink her tea, her violet eyes darting up to Geralt as she waited, as if to see if he had anything of interest to say. When he offered nothing, she exhaled, softly, before turning her attention back to Shani once more, seeming thoroughly unperturbed with having to continue the conversation on her own. “I’m afraid I haven’t been kept apprised of your journeys since Vizima, however,” Yennefer continued, picking up her teacup again and taking another sip. “I’ve been rather busy with other things, and my path has not crossed with Dandelion’s in quite some time.”

“After Vizima seems so long ago,” Shani answered, setting down her own teacup with a soft, slightly embarrassed-sounding chuckle. “I’m not sure I remember it all in perfect detail. After Vizima, I… went back to Oxenfurt, completed my doctorate. Opened my own practice in the city for a while… then I believe I did time in every field hospital and medic’s tent north of the Yaruga.”

“Never could stand to be idle,” Geralt commented, causing Shani to look up at him at the quip.

“Well, I’m not a witcher,” she answered, her soft pink lips curling into a small, impish smile. “Not likely to live a hundred and fifty years. My time’s much shorter, so I try to use every bit wisely.” Looking back down at her teacup, she paused, concentrating on it in thought, before looking back up at Yennefer again, seeming to remember where she had been only moments earlier. “After that, I travelled around quite a bit,” she continued, not missing a beat, despite the interruption. “Going wherever my assistance was needed. Redanian territories, mostly. Then one day I was called back to Oxenfurt, to investigate whatever was poisoning the city’s waters and help create an antidote for what was causing the sickness.” Lifting her cup to her lips again, she took another long sip of tea, allowing a moment of silence to pass before wetting her lips and setting the cup back down in its dainty saucer.

“I lost a lot of good men on that mission,” she said, her voice quiet, hazel eyes solemn as she stared down at her tea. “But I did eventually find a cure. Geralt helped, of course… he got me the sample I needed to complete my decoction.” She looked over at Geralt as she mentioned his name, and Geralt quickly turned his gaze up again to meet her eyes, having been momentarily distracted by the dancing flames in the crackling fireplace behind her. “After that… I travelled around some more,” Shani continued after a moment, watching his face as she spoke, judiciously leaving out any mention of the wedding and the ghost of von Everec. He was grateful to her for omitting those details, though he was certain the subject of the wedding would come up eventually, considering the circumstances of Shani’s visit. “Until I realized my blood was late… _very_ late. That’s when I thought it would be best if I were to come here.”

Geralt grunted at the mention of blood, causing Yennefer to look up at him at the sound. He had learned barely nine years prior, at Kaer Morhen, what the significance of a woman’s blood meant, but he still did not fully comprehend the connection between one detail and the other in Shani’s story. Even so, he feared what reaction he might get from Yennefer if he were to ask so plainly for Shani to explain, and so he decided he would have to ask Ciri what the connection between the two might be, when next they spoke. It had been her first blood which had alerted him to the phenomenon in the first place, after all, so he figured she would be the least likely to judge him for being still so naïve on the matter.

Yennefer frowned a bit at the interruption, but quickly turned her attention back to Shani, seeming to decide that whatever was on Geralt’s mind was not worth prodding at to investigate further. “I’m glad you decided to visit us, Shani,” she told her, picking up the platter of bread and cheese from further down the table and setting it beside the doctor, offering her a selection. “Would you mind if I asked what your current housing situation is? Are you settled anywhere, or are you still travelling?”

“Oh, no,” Shani answered, shaking her head, gratefully picking up a warm piece of bread. “I haven’t found time to settle. I’ve been on the road working ever since leaving Novigrad, and I’ll probably go back to that as soon as I leave here.” Pausing, she frowned faintly down at the array of cheeses spread out on the plate beside her, only to let out a soft, embarrassed laugh as Yennefer took pity on her, picking out the one best suited to pair with the type of bread she had chosen. “Thank you,” Shani told her, quietly, folding the cheese into the slice of warm bread. “As for my housing… when I’m not working military tents, I’ve been staying at various inns or hostels, setting up temporary clinics to do my work in the major cities. There’s sickness everywhere… I’ve seen how it can spread.”

Taking a bite of her bread and cheese, she hummed softly, appreciating the good food, before finally swallowing and shaking her head, solemn once more as she looked up at Yennefer again. “I can’t justify staying in one place when people need my help,” she said, her pretty brow furrowing. “Even if that would be more convenient for me.”

“But surely you realize things are different now,” Yennefer returned, folding her arms on the table in front of her. “You don’t intend to travel around tending the sick while you’re with child, do you?”

Shani paused at the pointed question, blinking a few times as she thought it over. “I… had,” she finally answered, sounding much less certain than before. “I can’t just abandon my oath. I made a commitment, after all. And besides, I figure I won’t start showing for another… few weeks, perhaps, and even then it won’t truly be a hindrance to me until at least six months in.” Taking another, more distracted bite of bread and cheese, she chewed slowly, thinking about what she had said, before turning her gaze down to fix on her teacup, more hesitant to meet Yennefer’s eyes. “As long as I can work, I can help heal the sick,” she added, swallowing with a pointed nod. “What kind of doctor would I be otherwise?”

“A pregnant one,” Geralt answered, causing Shani to look up at him in surprise. She frowned at the comment, setting down her bread and cheese, seeming a bit irritated at the point – though whether that was because of the subject matter or the fact that he was the one pointing it out, Geralt could not quite tell.

“Other women work while pregnant,” Shani returned. “I don’t see why it should change anything for me. You don’t see a farmer’s wife cooling her heels for nine months while she waits for her child to be born.” Finishing her last bite of bread and cheese, she brushed her fingers across her dainty mouth, ensuring no crumbs remained before turning her attention back to Geralt again. “If she can keep working, there’s no reason I can’t do the same,” she added, matter-of-factly. “I’m not better than she is.”

Geralt grunted, folding his arms across his chest. “Farmer’s wife doesn’t treat disease,” he pointed out. “Just cows.”

“Perhaps there are ways you could continue your practice without having to put your child’s life at risk?” Yennefer suggested, cutting over the back and forth. Reaching out, she placed her hands protectively over Shani’s, as if hoping the touch might distract her from arguing back, even if her words did not. “Our home is large and impeccably clean, and we have dozens of rooms we’ve not yet had a chance to put to any real use,” she said. “You could live with us, here, at the manor, and run your practice out of Corvo Bianco.”

This suggestion seemed to get Shani’s attention, and she quickly turned her gaze to Yennefer, looking half-intrigued as she waited for the sorceress to fill in more details of her offer. Yennefer smiled at the doctor’s expression, retrieving her hands to her own cup of tea, and Geralt could not help wondering if she had been secretly formulating this proposal from the moment she had learned Shani was carrying his child. “You could treat the wealthy of Toussaint from the comfort of a clinic,” Yennefer told her, sounding ever more enthused with the idea the further she continued. “You’d never again have to deal with the filth and danger of a medical tent. We’d provide room and board for you and your child, and you could use what money you earn from your clinic to pay for any other expenses.”

Having said this, Yennefer suddenly paused, seeming thoughtful for a moment, before she turned her gaze to instead look out towards the rain-streaked windows, her expression growing strangely distant. “Corvo Bianco is a wonderful home,” she said, as much to herself as to Shani. “But it can be quite lonely, especially on nights when Geralt is away and I’m left only to my thoughts and the books in our library. We don’t have many guests, as you can imagine, and though we have everything we could surely want, the isolation can grow to be quite… disheartening, at times.”

Geralt frowned at the sentiment, wondering why Yennefer had never thought to bring this up to him in the months they had lived at Corvo Bianco. She had always seemed content with the time she was allowed to spend without his presence, the nights he was out on the Path pursing contracts for coin to spend on creature comforts. She had always had a taste for the finer things, and he had never been able to say no to her, an arrangement he had thought worked well for them – but now, as he listened to her speak of her loneliness to Shani, he realized she longed for more than mere creature comforts during the days he was away, and he felt like a fool for never thinking to ask if she was truly as happy here as he had always been content to assume.

Yennefer did not even seem to notice Geralt’s expression as she turned her attention back to Shani again, smiling as she took another breath, intent on continuing with her grandiose plan. “Having you around, and your child as well… I think it would do us as much good as it would for you,” she told her. “After all, what better way is there to spend one’s time and money than on a child?” This last question hit Geralt harder than expected, and he grunted again, as if physically struck, but Yennefer spared him only a glance before returning her attention to Shani once more, watching her with expectant eyes as she waited for an answer to her offer.

Shani sucked her lip, staring down into the recess of her nearly-empty cup, before looking up again, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a soft, weary sigh. “Your offer is incredibly kind,” she said, speaking slowly, determined not to offend the sorceress. “And I must admit, the idea of my own clinic is… something I’ve dreamed of for quite some time. But… it’s too generous. I can’t accept a situation where I feel I’m contributing so little in comparison to everyone else.” Turning her hazel gaze down again, Shani’s slim fingers fidgeted over the porcelain surface of her teacup, her brow furrowing softly in guilt as she tried to think of a way to continue her explanation.

“I appreciate the offer, but my duty is to the less fortunate of the world,” she said, letting out another soft breath at the words. “If I let this pregnancy slow me down, allow myself to settle here, in your beautiful home… I don’t know that I’d ever be able to convince myself to leave again once it’s time to go.”

“Then don’t go,” Yennefer answered, bluntly, causing Shani to look up in surprise at the response. Reaching out a hand to Shani again, Yennefer rested it over the doctor’s wrist, raising her shapely brows as she fixed her gaze with Shani’s, as sincere as Geralt had ever seen her. “Stay here, at Corvo Bianco,” she insisted. “Live here with us. You’re welcome here. You, your child, Geralt, and myself – we’d be like a little family.” She paused as she said this, as if surprised by her own choice of words, before her gentle smile began to widen a bit, trying to hide the hint of sadness that had begun to creep into her expression at the thought. “It’s been so long for us,” she added, giving Shani’s wrist a small, assuring squeeze. “We have so much room, and no one to fill it. Stay here with us. It would be so nice to be a family again.”

The sound of a chair being pushed back from the table caused both women to look up in surprise, watching as Geralt rose rigidly to his feet before jerking his chin towards the master bedroom. “Going to bed,” he announced, shortly. “Been a long day. We should all get rest soon.” He had turned his face away from the fire as he stood, making his expression difficult to read, but Yennefer could still spot a glint of his yellow eyes in the flickering glow of the flames. She could see that the slits of his cat-like pupils were narrowed with anxiety as he stepped around his dining-chair, and she quickly stood up from the table as well, holding out a hand to stop him.

“Geralt, wait,” Yennefer told him, causing Geralt to pause at her prompting, taking a moment before turning back to look at her, his expression flat as he stared across the front-room. The orange of the firelight flickered off his snowy mane, making him look like an otherworldly entity, but all Yennefer could see was the clench of his jaw, the steel of his eyes, every tiny, imperceptible detail about the witcher that anyone else would have surely missed, but which Yennefer knew were the telltale signs that the monster hunter was trying hard not to crack. She had never truly seen Geralt cry, and she doubted this would be the time for that – but she could still see the rigid, vibrating lump of his adam’s apple in his throat, and knew full well that this would not be an easy conversation, whenever he could summon the emotional strength to agree to confront it with her.

“You can’t go to bed yet,” Yennefer told him, lamely, trying to think of something to say that would not give away his distress. “You haven’t even finished eating.”

Geralt frowned at the argument, his gaze flicking to the half-finished spread, before his eyes returned to Yennefer again, his expression unchanging. “Not hungry,” he told her. “Just tired. You and Shani finish what you want. Then give the rest to Marlene and Barnabas.” He paused as he said this, thinking it over, before giving another soft grunt at the thought. “Never see them eat anything but quick, easy meals,” he said, more to himself than Yennefer or their guest. “They work hard around here. They deserve expensive food.” Then, having said his piece, he turned away from the table again, starting to make his way towards the master bedroom once more. As he reached the door, however, he found that he could not convince himself to take the handle; he could feel something drawing his attention back to the front-room, to the women still sitting at the table, and though he knew he would regret it, he could not keep from turning to look back at them one last time.

Yennefer’s look of confusion and concern had mixed with a bit of ire by now, something he was used to from the fiery sorceress – but Shani’s expression made his stomach clench, his heart freezing solid in his chest. He could handle Yennefer’s indignation, her barbs, her exasperation and frustration, but the look on Shani’s face was not one he had been prepared for, as much as he knew he deserved it. Rather than the usual look of worry he was so used to receiving from the soft-hearted doctor, the only thing he could see on Shani’s face now was disappointment – detached, entirely justified disappointment, a response to a reaction she had surely known was coming. Just like before, just like every time before, this was simply one more instance of the fickle, flighty witcher finding any reason to leave when she had most depended on him to stay.

“See you in the morning, Shani,” Geralt told her, quietly, feeling the knot of guilt tighten in his chest.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Shani returned, her voice still soft, making him feel even worse than before. He had hoped she might scold him at the noncommittal bidding, tell him off the way Yennefer would, give in to any instinct of anger and rip him apart for what he had done to her. He wanted to know what was on her mind, to gain some insight into how she felt about the whole situation – but sharing like that was not in Shani’s nature, and though he usually agreed with the practice, right now he could not think of anything he hated more than being kept so thoroughly in the dark.

“Hm,” Geralt answered, having nothing else to say. Then, turning back again, he disappeared through the door to the master bedroom.

* * *

Geralt had gone to bed facing the wall, towards the painting of the starry sky overlooking the Pontar, and though he had at one point tried to sleep, he found he could not convince his eyes to close. The events of the night were still too fresh to allow for sleep; too raw, too unbelievable, still festering and clawing like a necrophage that had burrowed its way down into his brain. The idea of accidentally impregnating someone was bad enough as it was, with his marital vows to Yennefer still cooling, their rings not even having had a chance to tarnish with the march of time – but the fact that it was Shani whose life he had ruined with his thoughtless actions just made it all the worse. He was certain Shani blamed him, and he could not fault her for it; with the way they had spoken when last they parted, the entire situation felt horribly twisted, as if he had somehow intentionally left her with one last token that she could never truly leave her past with the witcher behind.

He held his breath as he heard the creak of the master bedroom door again, listening to the soft sounds of Yennefer’s feet entering the room across the hardwood threshold. “Geralt? Are you awake?” Yennefer asked, her voice soft as she closed the door behind her. Geralt quickly closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep, hoping she would buy his ruse and not attempt to confront him; he knew he was a coward for avoiding her like this, but he still had no idea how to process what had just happened in the front-room, himself, and he had no desire to try and deconstruct the matter with Yennefer so soon after. It was a complicated matter, one he had never prepared for the eventuality of, and one he would never have guessed would occur just as they were trying to start a new life together. Not only that, but the idea of someone else having his child had to hurt like nothing else for Yennefer, and he was not certain he could handle hearing her say as much to his face right now.

Yennefer paused for a moment as she waited for an answer, the sound of her breathing slow and sad, before she finally gave up, letting out a soft sigh and turning instead to get ready for bed. Geralt could hear the sound of her undressing for sleep near the foot of the bed, and he had to resist looking down to catch a glimpse of the sorceress in her nearly-sheer nightgown. She had only begun to wear the nightgown since moving to Toussaint; Yennefer was proud of her body, and had always preferred to sleep in the nude, up until she had spotted the nightdress in a boutique in Beauclair and had fallen in love with the garment. Geralt had gladly purchased it for her, as much for his own selfish benefit as for hers; in truth, he had grown so used to the sight of her walking around his bed-chambers in the nude that it had become almost predictable to see her that way. But seeing her dressed in something like this, something that so delicately covered every piece he wished to put his mouth on, made the thought of undressing her so exciting that he had had to be scolded a few times since her purchase not to stain her outfit with his enthusiasm.

Geralt could feel the mattress moving as Yennefer at last climbed into bed beside him, curling up under the freshly-laundered sheets and pressing her warm back up against his. He liked when they slept this way, surprisingly; though he had grown used to sleeping with Yennefer’s head against his chest, her raven locks spread like softest silk over the battlemap of his scars, there was a certain intimacy sleeping back-to-back had which other positions did not. They could touch without seeing, listen without looking, hear one another’s thoughts without having to rely on expressions. Perhaps that was why he liked this position, he thought; he could tell Yennefer how he felt without worrying that the same emotions were not properly reflected in his face. She had never given him grief about his inability to emote the way others did, of course, but he had grown self-conscious of his eccentricities over the years regardless, and he was not certain he could even visualize how the way he was feeling right now was supposed to look.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room as they lay together in the bed, the only sounds breaking the stillness of night the patter of rain on the roof and the thrum of Yennefer’s heart beating a steady rhythm against Geralt’s back. Her heartbeat was faster than normal, he noticed – an undeniable sign of distress – but he had already committed to pretending to sleep, and he did not want to go back on that now. As much as he wanted to console his wife, he needed time to process things on his own – and between the contract in the catacombs and the ride home in the rain, he was certain Yennefer could not blame him for supposedly having fallen asleep as soon as his head hit their downy pillows.

“I gave Shani the upstairs guest bed,” Yennefer suddenly spoke again, quietly, though whether she knew he was awake or not was difficult to tell. “I figured she could stay there a while. At least until we figure out a more permanent place for her. Maybe that could just be her room here. It is rather nice, rather… spacious.” She paused, her heart fluttering against his back, taking in a deep breath as she shifted her legs under the covers, searching for something to entwine them in. “There’s room enough for a crib,” she added, speaking clearly just to his presence now, rather than in the hopes that he might hear and respond. “I had thought to perhaps convert it whenever Ciri had her child, but… I know that’s a silly thing to plan for. If Ciri had a child, she’d have it in Vizima. I just thought maybe, if she ever came to visit after…”

She trailed off again, her voice growing distant, and Geralt could feel her heart spike in her chest, the thought of how very lonely the house seemed without Ciri hitting her again with an unexpected weight. He opened his eyes as he listened to her breathe, staring at the wall, at the swirls and dips of the Pontar Valley, the twinkling stars in the peaceful sky, wondering when the last time was that he and Yennefer had ever been allowed to enjoy anything so unassumingly simple. Everything was difficult and complicated for them; everything came with hidden stipulations. Not even the thought of their foster daughter bringing a child of her own into the world could come without the burden of heartbreak.

“She barely brought anything at all… Shani,” Yennefer continued after a moment, changing the subject back again, sniffling softly as she fought back the first burning wells of tears from forming in her violet eyes. She was too stubborn to cry, he thought, even without anyone there to see her do it. “One horse and a chest of medical supplies. She has barely any clothes at all, though I figure she can wear mine, at least for a while. At least until…” She stopped again, a telling silence, and Geralt felt a knot of guilt tighten in his stomach at the knowledge of what had been coming next. Yennefer had no maternity clothes; she had never had a need for them. Even so, he had sometimes caught her absentmindedly perusing them while they shopped in the boutiques of Novigrad, running her fingers over the soft, loose material before seeming to remember where she was and quickly moving to the next tight-fitting outfit, searching for a design in white or black.

“This could be a wonderful thing for us, Geralt,” Yennefer suddenly spoke again, breaking the thoughtful silence, and Geralt could not help noticing there was something different in her tone this time, something a bit more hopeful. “A child in the house. I know we’ve never really thought about it before, but…” She paused again, trailing off once more, before a soft, sad sigh escaped her lips, and Geralt could feel a stitch of anguish twist in his gut at the thought of the face she had to be making. He knew Yennefer well enough by now that he could guess her expression by the sound of her voice: her wistful frown, her distant eyes, her soft, dark lashes half-hooded over her violet irises; the faint clenching of her jaw to fight back a lump in her throat she had no interest in entertaining the formation of. The thought of it all made him wish he could turn and embrace her, hold her close, kiss the part of her neck where it became her shoulder, breathe in her scent and make everything alright again – but he knew, even with all of that, it would never be alright. Not for Yennefer. Not truly.

Geralt could feel her shifting against him again as she turned in the bed, restless and sad, before she finally moved away from his side, causing him to nearly flinch as a cold breeze rushed down to fill the space between them. He wanted to reach out and pull her in again, hold her tightly against his skin, but if she needed her space, he was not going to be the one to deny it to her, even for his own peace of mind. “Goodnight, Geralt,” she told him, quietly, before leaving him in silence to his thoughts and the painting.


	3. Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the feedback and kudos so far, and I hope everyone has an amazing new year!

The fields surrounding Corvo Bianco were green and vibrant with the spring, the air crisp and temperate with dewy sunlight as Geralt squeezed his legs against Roach’s sides, snapping the mare’s reigns with a coaxing cry as he leaned in closer to her neck. He could hear the horse blustering with adrenaline as the wind whipped through her wild mane, drying her sweat to her flanks as it coursed eagerly over their morning run. Flicking the reigns again, Geralt tugged them to one side, coercing the mare into a turn, and Roach whinnied, tossing her head in the breeze, her hooves thundering eagerly against the grass as she began in the direction of the manor again, back towards the stables, where she knew her promised breakfast would be waiting.

Geralt and Roach had begun doing these morning runs only recently, after Geralt had noticed Roach becoming restless, having little opportunity to stretch her legs and gallop apart from the off occasion when he got a contract from some nearby town. Even then, it was usually barely a day’s ride before she was stuck in Corvo Bianco’s stables again, and Geralt could tell she was starting to resent the four walls of her life of newfound comfort. She was a horse with a taste for adventure, he knew, having grown used to the freedom of the wild trails during her years beside him on the Path, and it seemed unfair that she should be forced to give that up simply because he was finally able to dictate his own schedule, most of which he preferred to spend in bed with Yennefer, when it could be helped.

With Roach safely in her stall with her morning oats, Geralt passed a quick hand over his tousled hair, knowing he would get an earful from Yennefer if he came back in the house looking like he had just walked through a hurricane. Stepping through the front door of the manor, the witcher paused, listening for the sound of movement, trying to determine where he should head first, now that his morning ride was finished. It was past time for breakfast, but not quite time for lunch, which meant he still had a few hours to kill before he could entertain himself with food again. He could hear shuffling coming from the upstairs bedroom, as if someone were moving things around on the floor, trying to find the best place for them; he supposed that was Shani, doing her best to fill her time by rearranging her bedroom again, placing her hefty medical tomes in the half-empty bookcase and making room among the furniture for her worn traveling trunk.

He felt badly for Shani – much like Roach, she was restless, yearning to explore, but he knew that was not something either of them cared to risk, for fear of earning Yennefer’s ire. Yennefer’s concern for Shani’s wellbeing could be endearing, at times, but other times the sorceress had a bad habit of treating Shani as if she feared the doctor might break in half if Geralt were to so much as breathe on her too fervently. Though Geralt had tried to assure his wife that Shani was perfectly capable of handling her own wellbeing, he found he could say little to convince her to ease up on her caretaking at times, and, turning his attention to the other noises of the house, Geralt focused in on them, trying to decipher where Yennefer might be hiding, awaiting his return.

Honing his senses, he could just make out the faintest eke of a quill on parchment emanating from the library, and he turned towards the sound, guessing that only Yennefer would have any reason to be writing something in there. Barnabas-Basil had his own quarters to write in, and Marlene was not well-known for writing notes, having fallen out of practice during her years as a wight. The library smelled of lilac and gooseberries as he entered, the sound of the scratching pen reaching him from the far end of the room, and he followed his senses to their source, eventually coming upon his wife, as he had suspected, sitting at her writing-desk, pen in hand. Yennefer’s brow was furrowed deeply in thought as she bent over a perfumed parchment leaf, lettering out an elaborate correspondence, and Geralt lifted his chin, straining to see around her hand to catch a glimpse of what she was writing.

Yennefer’s handwriting was elegant, sharp and to the point like the sorceress herself, and just eloquent enough to make one feel inferiorly educated simply by glancing over the well-dressed text. Dropping down into the chair across the desk from her, Geralt stretched his legs out in front of him across the floor, crossing one booted ankle over the other as he reached for one of the books left unattended at the edge of her desk.

“Flowers of the Sansretour Valley,” he read aloud, turning the book over to check the title. “Didn’t know you were into gardening, Yen.”

“There are several plants that grow right here in Toussaint which produce ingredients useful for your potions,” Yennefer returned, not bothering to look up from her writing as she spoke. “Perhaps if you were a bit more invested in your alchemy studies you would have known that.”

“Don’t need to be,” Geralt answered, opening the book to a random page and allowing his eyes to be drawn to the illustration at the bottom corner of the text. “That’s what I’ve got you for.”

“Don’t use me as an excuse to be lazy, Geralt,” Yennefer told him, looking up for a moment, before dipping her quill in her inkpot and returning to work.

“Never,” Geralt answered, chuckling gruffly, closing the book in his lap. “Just an excuse not to read.” Setting the book on the desk again, he leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows against his knees as he stared intently at the letter Yennefer was writing, only to find his attention drawn back to the sorceress’ face once again, unable to keep his eyes from lingering on her expression. There was an intense sort of beauty to her concentration, he thought; similar to the way she looked when she was casting – a determination, powerful and otherworldly, one that hardened her eyes and steeled her lips, making her look like an icy work of art.

“What’re you writing?” he asked after a moment, indicating towards the paper with a jerk of his chin. He was sure he was bothering her in her work, but she had dealt with worse distractions before, and he knew she would have all the time in the world to work uninterrupted when he eventually left to go on another of his missions to Beauclair.

Yennefer paused in her work at the question, her quill lingering pensively above the page, before she eventually set it aside, instead picking up the paper she had been working on as if to check, herself, what it was she had written. After a moment, she set the paper down again, before sliding it a few inches across the desk towards Geralt, inviting him to pick it up and read it if he so chose. “An entreaty for Duchess Anna Henrietta,” she told him, watching with avid eyes as Geralt picked up the letter, beginning to skim it for its contents. “Asking for ordinance to open and operate a working clinic out of Corvo Bianco. I’m unsure what the customs are in Toussaint, but I figured it would be best to cover all our bases. Don’t want to accidentally step on any toes.”

Geralt grunted at the comment, setting the letter back down on the desk and sliding it across to Yennefer again. “Might be better to just ask Ciri,” he suggested, leaning back in his chair again. “Toussaint is a vassal of Nilfgaard. Plus, Anna Henrietta’s not exactly my biggest fan. Not after that whole incident with Dandelion.”

“With him running around on her with another duchess, you mean?” Yennefer asked, frowning as she took the letter back. “That had nothing to do with you. She can’t blame you for Dandelion’s indiscretions.”

“She can if I support him,” Geralt returned, offering an unhelpful shrug of one shoulder as he settled back against his chair, lacing his fingers together over his stomach with a soft, tired sigh. “He’s my friend. I stood behind him. Anna Henrietta didn’t appreciate that.”

“Which is entirely unfair, considering you saved her sister’s life,” Yennefer answered, shaking her head as she dipped her quill in the inkpot again, preparing to continue. “Ungrateful brat.”

“Who, Henrietta? Or the sister?” Geralt asked, unable to help a small smirk from curving the corners of his lips at Yennefer’s endearing vitriol.

“Both of them,” Yennefer answered, almost spitting the venomous response as she looked up at Geralt again. “She’s still living there, you know. Sylvia Anna. Enjoying her time, even after everything she did.”

“At least Detlaff got away,” Geralt put in, arching his shoulders to stretch the tired muscles in his back. “Sylvia’s actions don’t excuse what he did. All those murders. But I’m still glad I didn’t have to kill him.”

“I suppose,” Yennefer answered, dourly. Then, looking down to her paper again, she scoffed, shaking her head at the thought. “Anna Henrietta was so quick to forgive Sylvia for everything,” she muttered.

“She’s still her sister,” Geralt returned. “That’s what sisters do.”

Yennefer sighed deeply at the counterpoint, brushing the elegant quill-feather against her lips as she considered, still clearly annoyed. “I suppose that’s also true,” she finally answered, sounding less than convinced in spite of herself. Then, looking up at Geralt again, she suddenly paused, watching him, thoughtfully, her violet eyes notably sharper and more curious than before. Geralt frowned at the change, unsure what to expect, shifting a bit in his chair as he waited for whatever biting sentiment was coming next. “You probably think it silly of me to have forgiven Triss for what you and she did while I was away,” Yennefer finally said, causing Geralt to falter at the statement, blinking a few times as he tried to decide what to say in response.

“No,” he finally answered after a moment, shaking his head. “I thought it was generous. Showed you were willing to look past mistakes.”

“Hm,” Yennefer returned, a short, harsh sound, and Geralt had to wonder if he had once again chosen the wrong thing to say. “It was a mistake on _your_ part, Geralt. Not hers. She knew what she did, and she did it anyway.” Stopping again, she lingered another moment in thought, staring down at the parchment in front of her, too distracted to actually absorb any of the words written on the page. Then, letting out a soft sigh, she leaned back in her chair again, picking up her quill-pen and dipping it in the ink once more. “But she’s my best friend, and the closest thing I have to a sister,” she said, hovering her pen over the parchment, determined to continue. “So I suppose I can’t fault Anna Henrietta for her choices, when I’ve made some of the very same.”

“Sylvia tricked a man into murdering four people,” Geralt pointed out, unfolding his hands to rest them instead on the armrests of his chair. “Brutally. Then tried to kill her own sister.”

Yennefer frowned at the commentary, turning her disapproving gaze up to rest on Geralt again. “I’m trying to forgive you, Geralt,” she told him, frankly. “Must you fight me on everything?”

Geralt grunted at the question, realizing he was once again treading into dangerous territory. “Sorry,” he answered, shortly, causing Yennefer to nod, satisfied with the apology. Then, turning her attention to her work once more, she began to write again, the scratch of the ink-quill against the page the only sound breaking the uncomfortable, perfumed stillness of the library. Geralt shifted in his chair, uncrossing and re-crossing his ankles against the floor, tapping a gloved finger against the end of his armrest as he watched Yennefer at work. He was unsure if he should risk speaking again, or simply allow her to continue writing in peace; now that the topic of Triss had been breached, he felt he had an opportunity to learn other details of Yennefer’s state of mind, details he had not had the nerve to ask after earlier, but whether those would go over as well as this had was not something he could be entirely certain of.

“And… what about Shani?” he finally asked, watching closely for any unconscious reaction from Yennefer. He was unsure what he expected that to be, truly; with how she had treated Shani from when the medic had first appeared on their doorstep, he had observed nothing but positivity from Yennefer on the topic of the woman now inhabiting their guest-room. From what he could tell, Yennefer seemed entirely pleased with the presence of their guest, excited almost, and though Geralt had had thoughts of simply allowing that to run its course, he could not help his curiosity in wanting to know how his wife truly felt about the whole situation – about the unexpected turn of events that brought a woman she barely knew into their home, into their lives, with the idea that one action Geralt had taken would mean she would likely be there in some way forever.

“What about Shani?” Yennefer asked in return, not bothering to look up from her parchment as she spoke. “She’s done nothing wrong.”

“I meant me,” Geralt clarified, clearing his throat softly. “Me and Shani. You talked about Triss… I was wondering about Shani.”

Yennefer sighed deeply at the conversation, resting her elbows wearily on her desk as she looked up again, seeming more annoyed at being interrupted than she was with the topic at hand. “We were on a break, Geralt,” she told him, tiredly. “I said as much before anything happened. I knew what you would do when we were apart – anyone would. It came as no surprise.” Sitting back in her chair again, she took a deep breath, pinching the quill between her painted fingers and puffing out her cheeks, before she finally let her breath out again in a long, thoughtful exhale. “The only thing that came as a surprise was that it resulted the way it did,” she added, frankly. “But… there are far worse things to be surprised with than a child. I suppose I consider us rather fortunate in that regard, really.”

“You should be used to that,” Geralt joked, darkly. “Being married to a witcher. Surprise children is kind of our thing.”

Yennefer snorted at the jest, turning her violet eyes downward. “Yes, well,” she said. “That’s a far different and much bleaker version of the sentiment, of course, but I suppose it’s true. In its own way.”

“Got me Ciri,” Geralt reminded her, feeling the corners of his lips turn up at the thought of his surprise child.

Yennefer smiled fondly at the memory, finally turning her eyes up to Geralt again. “Yes,” she agreed, nodding along, waving the quill absentmindedly as she spoke. “That it did. And I suppose I can’t argue with it for that.” Letting out another soft breath of thought, Yennefer looked down at the parchment in front of her again, her gaze seeming unfocused, almost distant as she stared at the words on the page. “It probably _would_ be easier to just ask Ciri,” she acknowledged after a moment, speaking more to herself than Geralt. “Though that would require explaining to her why Shani is living in our home in the first place. Which I feel is a topic best left to you, Geralt, as this whole situation is of your making.”

Looking up at Geralt again, she raised her shapely brows, slowly, allowing him time to sweat beneath her gaze as she watched him for a reaction to this newest development. “You could write to her yourself, you know,” she told him, seeming far too intent on the thought for his liking. “Tell her how you got a woman pregnant in the _month_ we were apart after her leaving. Explain to her how we’d like to open a clinic so we can take care of the child you sired _mere weeks_ before our wedding.”

“I thought you weren’t upset about that,” Geralt told her, feeling suddenly very targeted.

“Oh, no, I never said that,” Yennefer returned, shaking her head with a bitter smirk, reaching forward to dip her quill in her inkpot again. “I said I wasn’t upset with Shani, and that I expected you to sleep around while we were apart. I didn’t say I was at peace with the fact that you got her _pregnant_ in that time.” Writing another line on her parchment, she blew gently on the wet ink, drying it, before sitting back again to stare down at her newest addition with a look of mixed thought and disapproval. “I’m understanding of your dispositions, Geralt. Truly, I am,” she told him, not bothering to look up at him again as she spoke. “Given how long I’ve put up with them, I would be a fool not to be at this point. This isn’t the first time you’ve slept around, and I’d be very surprised if it was the last.”

“It _was_ the last,” Geralt insisted, affronted. “I wouldn’t sleep around on my wife.”

“That remains to be seen,” Yennefer returned, dryly. “I want to trust that you’re good on your word. But I’m still only human, and there is still a limit to what I can look beyond.” Setting her quill in her inkpot again, Yennefer folded her hands on her desk, taking in a deep breath before looking up across the desk at her husband again. “We will get through this, Geralt,” she told him. “But it will take time. It can’t be expected not to. In the meantime, I want to ensure Shani is being taken care of to the best of our capabilities.”

Turning her attention to her letter again, she picked it up, combing her gaze across the elegant text, checking to see if she had made any errors or if the message was finally ready to send. “If Anna Henrietta is unwilling to work with us, then we can ask for help from Ciri,” she added, nodding to herself as she finished reading, seeming satisfied with her missive as she looked up at Geralt again. “In the meantime, however, I don’t wish to go spreading this any further than we absolutely have to. Shani is vulnerable, and the less people who know the details of her situation, the better.” Blowing one final time on the letter to dry it, she began to fold the parchment neatly into thirds, careful to align the edges of the page before creasing them down with a press of her delicate hands.

“You don’t know what kind of people will come out of the woodwork once they learn that some woman in Toussaint is carrying the child of a witcher,” Yennefer told him, looking up at him knowingly as she reached for her wax seal. Geralt felt his stomach twist at the point he had not even considered, but he said nothing, not wanting to let on that so obvious a matter had slipped his mind. “People aren’t exactly known for revering your kind, and the thought that you’re suddenly able to reproduce is not likely to go over well,” Yennefer added, not even seeming to notice his discomfort, or if she had, saying nothing about it. “We have to keep Shani safe from that sort of thing now. It’s our responsibility.”

“Right,” Geralt answered, only half paying attention anymore. The point Yennefer had brought up was a frightening one, and he frowned as he stared down at his boots, considering it. He had never really given thought to what the public opinion of their situation might be, but he supposed the natural-born child of a witcher might come across as a terrifying prospect, to some. The concept that witchers were relatively rare was a comforting thought to most, he knew, as witchers were often portrayed as depraved and volatile mutants, useful only in their ability to kill monsters, but otherwise undesirable as a part of society. Even so, the idea that a helpless baby could be considered a threat to anyone seemed absurd, and he grunted at the thought, before turning his attention to Yennefer once more, not in any mood to think about it.

“I’ll let you work,” Geralt told her, pushing himself to his feet again. Yennefer hummed in response, waving her quill absentmindedly in his direction, already readying another piece of parchment to begin on a second letter. Geralt had the urge to ask who this one was going to be addressed to, but he figured he had already wasted enough of his wife’s time, and so, turning away again, he began to make his way across the library, reaching for the door to let himself out and find something else to entertain his time. No sooner had he reached out to touch the door handle, however, when he felt a sudden, familiar sensation from around his neck, and he stopped, his hand resting on the handle, stiffening as his medallion gave a faint tremor against his chest.

Turning quickly back towards the library, Geralt glanced around for anything that might have set the amulet off, but nothing seemed significantly out of place from the last time he had looked. A moment later, the sensation ended, the pendant stilling almost as suddenly as it had begun to hum, and, reaching up a troubled hand, Geralt gripped the wolf’s head pendant, wondering if it was possible his time-tested medallion had been set off by a fluke. Perhaps the amulet had spontaneously picked up on a whiff of Yennefer’s magic, he thought – or perhaps some ghost or other unpleasant creature had taken up residence in the cellar beneath the house, and this was just the first unwelcome warning of more work that needed to be done.

“Yen,” Geralt said, speaking slowly, turning to face his wife again. “Did you… do anything just now?”

“Hm?” Yennefer asked, still half-distracted by her task. “Like what?”

Geralt hesitated, unsure what exactly he had expected her to admit to, now that the question had been put out there. “Magic,” he said, feeling a bit foolish, even as he said it. “Did you do any magic just now?”

Yennefer frowned at the question, looking up at last, pinching the feathered end of her quill between her dainty fingers. “No,” she answered, shaking her head. “I was only writing still. Why?”

“Nothing,” Geralt said, quickly. “Just… something strange. That’s all.”

“Not too strange, I hope,” Yennefer returned. “I’d hate to have reason to worry.”

“It’s nothing, Yen,” Geralt assured her, raising a hand to wave it off. “Just a weird feeling. That’s all. Probably just still jumpy from my last contract.” Then, turning away from his wife again, he started to reach for the door handle once more, only to stop halfway, afraid to touch it, not wanting to set off the same reaction as before.

He huffed, inwardly cursing his paranoia, before grasping the handle firmly and pulling open the door, unable to help a breath of relief when he was met with no magical resistance this time. Whatever had caused the vibrations of before had apparently disappeared between then and now, he thought – or at the very least, had stopped emitting magical energy for the time being. Letting out a soft grunt, Geralt let himself out into the hall, closing the door quietly behind him to allow Yennefer her peace, before starting to make his way towards the front-room instead, seeing what else he could find to do until it was time to eat.

In truth, he did not like the idea that something as important as his amulet was working in a way other than expected, but he quickly realized there was nothing he could do about it, and dwelling would only make matters worse. It was not the first time his medallion had gone off around the property, he reminded himself – it had warned him once to the presence of an archespore that had taken root at the edge of the property, near to the place where he had slaughtered a warg that had been harassing his faithful steed. It had been his own fault, he knew, for not cleaning up better after the carnage, allowing the blood to seep into the soil, but the cursed plant had put up enough of a fight that he had taken that as his lesson learned.

Chuckling at the memory, Geralt picked up his swords from where he had hung them by the door, sliding one out to inspect the blade, running his thumb over the tested metal. It had been a while since he had faced a foe that had truly challenged him, he thought; though the contracts he took now were more than enough to provide for his and Yennefer’s retirement, he sometimes found he missed the excitement of facing down monsters he knew full well could kill him with a single, well-placed bite or claw. Even so, he told himself, he would not trade the comfort of retirement for all the spectacular, dangerous beasts of the Continent combined, and he grinned as he slid his sword back into its scabbard, patting its oiled stitches.

“Master Geralt?” Barnabas-Basil’s reedy voice pulled Geralt quickly back home from the thought of the Path, and he turned at the sound, giving the majordomo his full attention. “Sir, you have a visitor,” Barnabas-Basil informed him, indicating towards the main door of the house. “A girl, sir. She brought a note.”

“Great,” Geralt said, nodding. “I’ll take it. Thanks, Barnabas.”

“She did not give me the note, sir,” Barnabas-Basil answered, shaking his head as he folded his hands behind his back. “I told her I would happily deliver whatever she brought, but she insisted on meeting you, herself. She wanted to deliver the note in person, it seems. She’s waiting for you outside.” Taking a deep breath, the majordomo sighed, sounding incredibly weary, making Geralt wonder if there was something more about this visitor he was not being told. “I believe she was intrigued by the fact that you were a witcher, and wished to see for herself,” Barnabas-Basil added. “I told her you were retired, but it seemed she could not be deterred.”

“We are rather fascinating,” Geralt returned, dryly, appreciative for his majordomo’s patience in handling the unusual visitors that made their way through the vineyard on a regular basis. “I’ll talk to the girl. See what she wants. Hopefully not much.”

“You had other things planned for the day, sir?” Barnabas-Basil asked, stepping aside to allow Geralt to pass.

Geralt snorted at the question, offering Barnabas-Basil a wry, thin smirk, before making his way to the main door of the house, opening it to allow himself out into the courtyard. Stepping out into the Toussaint sunlight, he squinted his golden eyes against the glare, shading them over with one hand as they adjusted to the brightness of the world outside, before casting a quick glance over the courtyard to search for the messenger Barnabas-Basil had mentioned. It took him a moment to locate the girl, as she had seemingly wandered off to explore when it had taken a few minutes to honour her request to speak to the witcher in person, but he soon found her crouched in a patch of bright flowers, her green velvet coat making her nearly imperceptible against the rows of flora that comprised the vineyard.

“Can I help you?” Geralt asked, a bit bewildered by his unusual visitor.

The girl did not immediately straighten at the sound of the witcher’s voice, seeming entirely unfazed by the inherent gruffness of his tone. “I’ve come to deliver a note,” she answered, reaching out a curious hand to touch a bud on the vine she had been inspecting. Most of the flowers on the vine had blossomed with the spring, Geralt knew, but a few had been late to bloom, and the girl seemed particularly intrigued by the ones that still seemed unwilling to open. “A contract, actually. From Beauclair.” Standing from the dirt at last, the girl smoothed the front of her velvet coat, before stepping from the flower-bed and onto the stone-cobbled walk, the buckles of her shiny shoes jingling merrily as she took her first steps forward towards the witcher.

She was a cute enough girl, Geralt decided, though he realized he had little experience with that sort of thing – she was a rosy-cheeked child, strawberry-blonde, with unusual eyes neither wholly green or blue. “My uncle says you’re a witcher,” the girl told him, staring up at him attentively as she spoke. Her expression was half of delight, half amazement as she stared up at him, something Geralt was entirely unused to when it came to how children viewed him; most children were afraid of his fearsome appearance or scorned him for his profession, spitting at his feet and running to hide whenever they saw the witcher approaching. Witchers in wives’ tales were known for snatching unsuspecting children off the street, or spiriting them away in the night from the arms of their loving parents, and though there was little truth to these stories, they still managed to persist, as most unflattering stories had a way of doing.

“He’s right,” Geralt answered, nodding in agreement, deciding to humour the little girl for the time being. “I am.”

“I’ve heard you don’t exist anymore,” the little girl continued, pressing onward. “That there’s very few of you left.”

Geralt frowned at the directness of her comments, wondering if she was still at an age where she could not be expected to have developed any sort of social tact. It was difficult to judge children’s ages, especially for someone who had so little experience dealing with children in the first place, but she seemed, to him, a bit too old to be completely oblivious to the bluntness of her statements. She reminded him a bit of himself in that way, though he figured he had slightly more reason to lack social grace than she might, having grown up in a city as obsessed with decorum and social standing as Beauclair. “Those statements contradict,” he told her after a moment. “There are few of us left. That’s true. And we’re not making any more. That’s also true.”

“Why aren’t you making any more?” the girl insisted, almost cutting over him in her eagerness to have her curiosity sated. “Are you too old? My uncle says men are never too old to have children. It’s only women who are too old. Maybe you could find a younger woman, and make more witchers that way.”

Geralt nearly choked at her candour, but he caught himself quickly, retaining his composure, instead only taking a deep breath and crossing his arms as he looked down at the girl, who seemed entirely unfazed by his impressive stature as he towered over her. “You certainly have a lot of opinions for someone your age,” he told her, frankly.

The little girl nodded matter-of-factly at his comment, as if this were not the first time she had been told this, and she doubted it would be the last. “My uncle says my mouth will get me in trouble one of these days,” she told him, sounding entirely unperturbed by this fact. “Or paid handsomely, if I learn to use it right.”

Geralt’s frown deepened at this last comment, his brow furrowing into a hard, silver line, but he did his best to continue to appear impassive as he addressed the girl. She was too young to understand a repulsive comment like that, he knew, but that still did not make it acceptable for anyone to say that kind of thing to a girl her age, particularly someone who was meant to look after her wellbeing, as an uncle might be expected to do. “I don’t think I like your uncle,” he told her, trying to keep his tone relatively light, not wanting her to think he meant any actual harm to her caretaker. Then, clearing his throat, he unfolded his arms, letting one drop back to his hip and using the other to indicate towards her, expectantly. “Didn’t you come to give me a letter?”

At this, the little girl’s eyes widened, as if she had just remembered her purpose in coming. “I did!” she exclaimed, shifting up eagerly onto her toes. Shoving her hands into her coat pockets, she rummaged around inside them for a bit, screwing up her face in concentration as she searched, until she finally pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from one of them, beaming as she held it out for the witcher to take. Geralt took the note gingerly from the little girl’s hand, turning it over before opening it up to read, unable to help a bit of bewilderment at its battered appearance. “I brought it as fast as I could,” the girl informed him, rocking back onto her heels again, folding her hands in front of her as she spoke, dutiful and pleased with a job well done. “It called for a witcher, and you were the only one I knew of. I went as fast as I could to get it to you.”

“This says a corpse-eater’s been spotted in a graveyard outside Beauclair,” Geralt told her, tapping the paper in his hand as he looked up at her again. “Have you heard anything else about this? There’s not a lot to go off here.”

“I don’t know anything about corpse-eaters,” the girl answered, honestly, shaking her head. “They’re not my interest. I’m more interested in unicorns. Have you ever seen a unicorn, master witcher?”

“Yeah,” Geralt answered, frowning distractedly down at the note again. “More dead than alive, though.” Realizing then how bleak his answer had to sound, he faltered, before quickly looking up at the little girl again. “Uh—they were already dead when I saw them,” he added. “The dead ones. They were stuffed. Like a museum, but… with unicorns.”

“I don’t think I like the sound of that,” the little girl told him, scrunching up her button nose at the thought. “I’d much rather have live unicorns than dead. You can’t ride a dead unicorn.”

“Depends on how you ride it,” Geralt answered, purposefully vague. Then, folding up the note again, he stuffed it into his pocket, before looking back down at the little girl and propping his hands tiredly on his hips. He was not looking forward to heading into this contract with as little information as he had been given, but from experience he had to figure that whatever was waiting was likely one of only a few different things: a ghoul was the most probable suspect, though a grave hag was also a possibility, and though neither sounded like a particularly lucrative kill, he figured a small bit of spending money was better than nothing at all.

“I have to prep before heading into town,” Geralt told the girl, jerking his chin in the direction of the manor, watching as her gaze followed his indication, seeming almost bored with the sight of the grandiose building. “Grab my swords. Saddle my horse. Will you be okay heading back into Beauclair by yourself?” At this question, the girl looked quickly back at him again, seeming oddly surprised, as if she had been lost in thought and had only just been pulled back to reality. “It’s a pretty long walk,” Geralt added, a little put off by her unusual behaviour, but not wanting to let that on to the girl. “Especially with little feet like yours.”

“You don’t know,” the girl answered, cheekily, rocking up onto her toes again as she responded. “I can be quite fast. I’m faster than all the boys my age.”

Geralt frowned again at her comment, glancing up momentarily towards the midday sun, before looking back down at the girl with another soft, thoughtful sigh and holding out a hand, inviting her over. “Come on,” he said, indicating for her to follow him. “My cook will get you something to eat. Then you can ride back to Beauclair with me. Too dangerous out there for a kid, alone.”

The girl beamed brightly as the witcher extended his hand, eagerly moving the few steps to take it and walking close to his side as he began to make his way back towards the manor again. Her hands were warm and soft, he noticed, though there was no hesitation in her grip as she held his arm, following along beside him with a determination that reminded him strongly of Ciri. Ciri had gripped securely to his arm like this as well, back in the Brokilon forest, her little thin hands determined not to let go of him as they faced the unknown together, defying even the wishes of Eithné and the dryads in her refusal to leave his side. He had foolishly abandoned her once again after that, not yet ready to train a young girl such as herself, but she had not given up her determination to find him once more, and it had not been long after that that he had begun to train her as a witcher at Kaer Morhen.

Pushing open the door of the manor, Geralt held it open, allowing the girl inside, before watching with a small grin as she immediately let go of his hand to bound over to the nearest wall, staring up at the swords on display. Letting the door shut behind him, Geralt grabbed his scabbarded swords from where they hung beside the entryway, allowing the girl free reign of the front-room while he headed to the kitchen to find Marlene. Marlene was easy to apprise of the situation, and seemed excited to have another guest in the house, and so, with the girl now in capable hands, Geralt was free to head next for the master bedroom, ready to change from his house-clothes into his witcher gear for the contract ahead. He was grateful to have kept in practice changing quickly between the two, and he hummed to himself as he knotted the last taut lacing of his leather bracers, grabbing his swords off the bed again and swinging the dual scabbard over his shoulder, before securing the strap loosely across his chest and heading again for the bedroom door.

His next destination would be the library, he decided, to let Yennefer know where he was going, and that he would not be home for supper. Yennefer was still hard at work on her correspondence by the time he entered the library again, and she did not look up from her work as he crossed to stand before her at the desk, clearing his throat to get her attention. “I haven’t finished, Geralt,” she told him, not bothering to look up from her letter as she spoke. “If you’d like to service yourself while you smell my hair, you may do that. Just be quiet about it. And do be sure to clean up after yourself once you’re done.”

“I’m heading to Beauclair,” Geralt announced, choosing to ignore her offer, though he could not deny it was tempting. “Got a contract. Some kind of necrophage. Probably a ghoul.”

Yennefer looked up at the mention of a contract, her quill hovering a few inches above her parchment, paused in thought. “You received this between the last time you were in here and now?” she asked, a bit bewildered by the timing.

Geralt nodded. “Little girl brought it in,” he said. “Walked from Beauclair to deliver it.”

“A little girl?” Yennefer asked, sitting up, curiously. “You didn’t let her walk back on her own, I hope?”

Geralt shook his head, adjusting his swords more securely on his back and tightening the strap across his chest. “Too far to go by herself,” he answered. “Taking her back with me on Roach.”

“Good,” Yennefer returned, nodding her approval, flicking her quill-pen distractedly at the motion. “There are necrophages out there, after all. Probably ghouls. And where is she now, this little girl?”

“Front-room,” Geralt said, jerking his head in the direction he had just come from. “Told her to wait for me. Needed to get my swords and gear.” Letting out a deep sigh then, he adjusted his swords against his back again, shifting the weight so they more comfortably rested against his shoulder before tightening the strap across his chest once more. Then, patting the buckle to ensure it was secure, he looked up at Yennefer again with tired, tested eyes, letting out a weary huff as he indicated back towards the front-room again. “Is this what having kids is like?” he asked, half-joking. “Been ten minutes and I’m tired. Don’t think I saw her take a breath in once.”

“Oh, soldier up, Geralt,” Yennefer returned, setting her quill-pen back in its inkpot and pushing her chair from the desk at last. Making her way around the table, she brushed past Geralt on her way to the door, touching his chest with one dainty hand and leaving a trail of lilac and gooseberries in her wake. Geralt breathed in the tempting aroma as she passed, turning his head to follow the scent, before starting to walk behind her to the door, keeping pace with the sorceress like a loyal dog. “It’ll be much worse with yours,” Yennefer continued, seeming to know full well the effect she had. “He’ll likely have your stamina and Shani’s smarts. He’ll run circles ‘round us all. At least this girl is only chatty.”

“Think it’ll be a boy?” Geralt asked, broken temporarily from her flowery spell.

Yennefer shrugged, resting her hand thoughtfully on the door handle, turning to glance back up at him as the unusual nature of the subject seemed to hit her for the first time as well. “I have no idea,” she answered, honestly. “He would certainly be a handsome boy. But you can never say for sure with these kinds of things.” She paused another moment, as if to consider what sort of child the son of her witcher husband might actually turn out to be, before letting out another soft hum and pushing the door open again, allowing them both out into the sunlit hall leading the way back to the front-room.

They could hear voices wafting through from the main room of the manor, a cheerful conversation between Marlene and the little girl, though the words were too muffled by the walls to be able to make out exactly what was being said. From the sound of things, the girl was asking Marlene questions about something of great interest, and Marlene was answering with as much honesty as she could, though Geralt could tell she was getting just as worn down by the girl’s tireless curiosity as he had been when she had grilled him on witchers and unicorns out in the garden. “You go upstairs and tell Shani where you’re going,” Yennefer told him, indicating with a wave of her wrist in the direction of the upstairs guest room. “I’ll stay down here with Marlene and the girl, see if I can’t get a little more information from her about whatever’s waiting for you in Beauclair. What did she say her name was?”

“Dunno,” Geralt answered, frankly. “Didn’t ask.”

Yennefer stopped at the answer, turning in the middle of the hall to look back at Geralt with a disapproving stare, and Geralt stopped short as well, taken aback, having nearly collided with his wife in his oblivious efforts to keep moving. “You didn’t ask her name?” Yennefer asked, not bothering to hide her incredulity.

Geralt shrugged, folding his arms at the question, still not seeing what he had done wrong. “She didn’t offer,” he answered, honestly.

Yennefer scowled at his blunt response, before letting out another tired sigh and turning back again, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder as she began to lead the way down the hall again. “I hope this isn’t how you intend to treat your own child,” she told him, half-exasperated. “A child is a person. They should be addressed by name.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered. “Pretty sure I’ll know my son’s name.”

“I certainly hope so,” Yennefer agreed. “And—” Turning again, she stopped the witcher once more in his tracks, this time holding up a scolding finger to point knowingly into his face. “Just so we’re clear, Roach is not a proper name for a child,” she told him, firmly.

Geralt grunted, a thin smirk lifting the corners of his mouth at the knowing joke. “No,” he answered, shaking his head. “Roach is a girl’s name.”

Yennefer huffed at the comment, trying hard to hide a wry smile of her own, before turning back in the direction of the front-room and waving again for Geralt to follow behind. “I don’t know why I married you,” she told him, though the fond lilt in her voice clearly said otherwise. “Just… tell Shani where you’re going, and try to come back from this contract within a reasonable time, if you would. I’ve still got letters that need writing so we can get this clinic up and running. We need medical supplies brought in, and to commission signage to let people know there’s a clinic here at the estate and lead them here from town.” Glancing over her shoulder at Geralt, she raised her brows, hopeful for his input. “Perhaps you could look into that while you’re in Beauclair?” she asked. “Get an estimate for how much it will cost.”

“Sure,” Geralt answered. “I’ll add it to my list. Kill ghoul, buy paint.”

“And candles, while you’re at it,” Yennefer added, having none of his sarcasm. “Lavender, if you would. For the smell. If not for the clinic, then for you. You’ll frighten away half her patrons before she’s even had a chance to treat them.”

Geralt snorted at the jab, feeling he likely deserved it, turning his golden gaze down to concede defeat as he followed Yennefer the rest of the way into the sunlit front-room. The smell of fresh food was a welcome aroma as they emerged into the dining-hall at last, and Geralt gladly stood back, watching as his wife approached the table where the girl now sat, eating clumsily with a fork and knife too large for her little hands. Her buckled shoes jingled as her little legs kicked beneath the table, too short to touch the floor, and Geralt grinned softly as Yennefer pulled out a chair to sit beside the girl, speaking in a low voice as she suggested a few things from the table for the child to eat. It felt strange to have so many people in their house at once, he thought, but he supposed that was the way Yennefer liked it – vibrant, full of life, surrounded by people whose presence she had chosen to make her own.

Geralt observed the two for another moment longer, savouring the touching scene, before deciding it would be best to allow them their privacy and instead turning to make his way to the guest bedroom, following Yennefer’s instructions to let the doctor know where he was going.

Shani was rearranging her bookshelf as the witcher arrived to her room, carefully sliding a hefty tome from the top shelf before setting it back on another, and Geralt paused at the top of the stairs to watch her, trying to decipher the order she had chosen for her texts. It had to be strange for her, he thought, to have suddenly so much time to spend on herself; for as long as he had known Shani, she had always dedicated a majority of her time to those in need, paying little mind to her own interests past the practice and application of medicine. The thought of having so much free time now had to be maddening for the young doctor, and Geralt wondered if he might ask Barnabas-Basil to inquire in town to see if there were any medical dilemmas Shani could lend her hand to, if only to give her some small distraction from her current anxiety.

The idea was pushed from his mind at the thought of how Yennefer might react to it, however, and Geralt quickly shook his head, clearing it before looking up at Shani again. While he supposed he could understand why Yennefer felt the way she did, he still could not help his guilt at how very stifled Shani seemed around the house, as well as the look on the doctor’s face whenever he caught her wandering downstairs, looking for something to fill her time. It was only a fleeting look, one she would quickly correct when spotted, but one which nonetheless made it clear she was trying her hardest to politely avoid her hosts, for fear of being gathered up, swaddled in warm blankets again, and provided with yet another cup of vitamin-enriched tea.

That was the look she gave Geralt as she finally glanced up to see him standing at the top of the stairs, but the witcher quickly raised a hand, assuring her that he only came in peace. “Just me,” he told her, half-amused by the reaction of terror the prospect of his wife’s doting instilled. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Just came to talk.”

Shani settled immediately at the reassurance, wedging the heavy volume between two smaller books, before wiping her hands on the front of her outfit and turning to face her visitor instead. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful,” she told him, truthfully, letting out a soft sigh as she crossed the room to her bed, sitting down and sliding over to make room for him to sit as well. “I appreciate everything you and Yennefer have done. I just feel like all I ever do anymore is eat, sleep, and pee. _Especially_ pee. I’m beginning to feel a bit like a baby, myself.”

Geralt smirked at the description, moving across the room to sit down where Shani had indicated, letting out a long, tired breath as he settled down onto the soft comforter of the guest bed beside her. “Might want to see a doctor about that,” he told her, causing her to chuckle in spite of herself, the sound good to hear. Stretching out his legs in front of him, Geralt folded his hands between his knees, taking a moment to look around the room as he tried to think of what else he could say; he had never been much good with empty reassurances, and he knew telling Shani that Yennefer only wanted what was best for her would fall flat on the doctor’s anxious ears. Looking over to the corner of the room then, Geralt grunted, noticing for the first time that the two extra decorative couches that had once sat there had been taken out, leaving an empty square of floor-space just large enough to fit a rather elaborate crib.

“You and Yen pick out a crib yet?” he asked, looking over at Shani again.

Shani paused, her gaze seeming oddly distant as she stared at the empty spot on the floor, before she shook her head, tucking a lock of stray red hair behind her ear. “Not yet,” she answered, sounding very tired, as if even the thought of picking out a crib was not one she was ready to face just yet. “I’m still settling in, Geralt. I haven’t even finished putting my books away.”

“From the number of times I’ve heard you rearranging them, I would’ve guessed you’d put them away several times by now,” Geralt answered, causing Shani to look up at him in surprise at the comment. She faltered, trying to decipher his tone, before realizing he was joking with her and offering a soft, embarrassed chuckle in response.

“Can’t get anything past a witcher,” she conceded, clasping her hands together in her lap. Then, having said this, she fell silent again, staring down first at her dainty feet, and then over towards the far end of the room, her gaze resting somewhere past the wardrobe and bookshelf that stood shoulder-to-shoulder against the wall. “Did you really think I was lying when I said I was pregnant?” she asked after a moment, causing Geralt to look up in surprise at the question, having not expected it to come up again after their conversation about it a few days earlier. Shani paused a moment after speaking, her pretty brow furrowing faintly in thought, before she turned to look over at Geralt again, her hazel eyes soft, but clearly tired.

“I can understand being sceptical,” she told him. “I would be sceptical too, in your shoes. But I don’t think I’ve ever lied to you, Geralt. Did you really think that would change… for this?”

“Didn’t think you were lying,” Geralt answered, honestly, hoping to cut the uncomfortable conversation short. “Thought maybe you were mistaken. Seemed too strange to be true. Still not wholly convinced it’s mine.”

To Geralt’s surprise, Shani let out a soft, sharp bark of wounded laughter at his response, pressing a hand to her chest as she looked quickly away from the witcher again. “I’m not sure who else’s you expect it to be,” she said, sounding amazed that he had spoken so plainly, and Geralt immediately felt his stomach drop, realizing he had made yet another thoughtless mistake.

“That’s not what I meant,” Geralt amended, gruffly, cursing himself for his tactless reply. “Just not sure I buy the idea that some novice was able to reverse the effects of the Trials with guesswork. Took two renowned mages _decades_ of research to create the basis for the mutations in the first place. The idea that two scientists working out of a college laboratory could undo that with a few years’ research—”

“Well, why not?” Shani asked, cutting him off as she turned to look over at him again. Her voice was still soft, but there was a challenge there, one Geralt found he was hesitant to speak against, and he faltered, unsure if he should respond or if it would be wiser to simply walk away. “What makes you think the Trials are so infallible?” Shani insisted, a certain curiosity entering her tone now. “From a medical standpoint, the failure rate tells me that there was still a lot of imperfect guesswork that went into the final product.”

Geralt huffed at the argument. “From a medical standpoint, I shouldn’t exist,” he answered, bluntly. “My heart beats four times slower than a normal human’s. I’m immune to most disease. I can ingest certain poisons and it does nothing to me.”

“True,” Shani agreed, nodding along with his observations. “You’re very different from a normal human, Geralt. But that doesn’t mean it can’t ever be reversed. You didn’t start out that way, after all.”

Geralt frowned at the comment, letting out a short grunt, not sure he liked where the conversation was going. “Came across the lab of a man, once,” he said, his brow furrowing deeper, the memory still as fresh in his mind as the day he had witnessed it for the first time. “Tried to reverse the witcher mutations in his son. Trapped him in a cage. Subjected him to experiments.” He hummed at the thought, the sound deep in his throat, before turning his golden gaze to look down at his boots again, pressing his palms flat together in his lap as he thinned his lips into a hard, grave line. “Didn’t work,” he said, solemnly, shaking his head. “Only enhanced the mutations already present further, faster. Once they’re in place, they’re there forever. You can’t unmutate something. Only mutate it more.”

“I see,” Shani answered, sounding entirely unfazed. “And what makes you so sure that isn’t exactly what the potion did? Mutate you further, to the point of reinvigorating whatever the initial mutations rendered moot?”

Geralt stared at the floor at the question, his brow furrowed, expression steeled. He had nothing to say to her; there was logic in her argument, undeniable logic, but for some reason he could not shake a deeply discomforting feeling from his mind at the thought. Standing from the bed, he turned to face Shani again, ignoring her look of surprise at the fact that he was walking away in the middle of their conversation. “Heading to Beauclair,” he told her, indicating with a jerk of his head towards the stairs. “Got a contract. Ghoul, most likely. Need anything before I leave?”

Shani hesitated, her pink lips thinning, as if considering asking him to stay and finish their discussion. Then, letting out a soft sigh, she crossed her dainty wrists over her knee, before shaking her head, offering him a shrug of her tired shoulders instead. “I’ll be fine, Geralt,” she told him. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a doctor, remember?”

“Even doctors need help sometimes,” Geralt returned.

Shani chuckled at the comment, the sound somewhat forced, though still clearly genuine. “I’ll be _fine_,” she repeated, more insistently this time. “Go to Beauclair, Geralt. Finish your contract. Maybe you can pick me up some candles in town, if you have time.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, dryly. “Lavender?”

Shani blinked at the question, having clearly not expected it. “Yeah,” she finally said, sounding a bit bewildered. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” Geralt answered, shrugging and adjusting his swords again.

* * *

The front-room was nearly empty as Geralt returned from Shani’s bedroom loft, with only Barnabas-Basil standing patiently by the manor door, holding a mid-sized leather satchel as he waited for the witcher to return. As soon as Geralt approached him, the majordomo stepped forward, handing the satchel over, and Geralt peered curiously into the bag, looking to see what he had been given. “Miss Marlene wanted to make sure the girl had enough to eat on the ride back to town,” Barnabas-Basil explained, causing Geralt to look up again from the satchel of prepared food with a slightly bemused expression. “I told her it was less than a day’s ride, but she insisted. The girl has quite an appetite, so I’m told.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, slinging the satchel over his shoulder. “Kids will eat you out of house and home. That’s what they say.”

“That’s none of my business, sir,” Barnabas-Basil returned. “Regardless, I’ve saddled up your horse and prepared her for your travels. She’s waiting in the stable, along with your young guest.” Letting out a tired sigh then, the majordomo leaned forward a bit, allowing Geralt to momentarily glimpse the sleepless bags forming around his patient eyes. “The girl insisted on waiting out there until you arrived,” Barnabas-Basil added, long-sufferingly. “I told her it was fine so long as she didn’t touch anything. I can neither confirm nor deny whether she kept her word on that.”

“Thanks, Barnabas,” Geralt answered, offering him a nod for his hard work. “Take care of the place until I get back.”

“As always, sir,” Barnabas-Basil returned, pushing the door open to allow Geralt outside.

The sun had already climbed high in the sky by the time Geralt stepped out into the courtyard, and he shaded his eyes against its rays as he looked out over the vineyard again, finding it hard to shake Shani’s words from his mind, as well as Yennefer’s. This was the safest place in the world for Shani right now, under his and Yennefer’s watchful care, and the grounds of Corvo Bianco were a paradise for any child to grow and play in – but he knew he could not force Shani to stay if she truly wished to take her child and leave once it was born. It was probably better that way, he told himself; he was hardly fit to be a father anyway, and any child raised between himself and Yennefer was sure to turn into an insufferable brat.

Letting out a soft sigh, Geralt turned his gaze to the stables instead, dropping his hand to his side as he began to head in the direction of his waiting steed. He could hear Roach blustering softly as he approached, overlapped by the sound of quiet conversation, and he picked up his pace, determined to stop any pestering of his horse before it had a chance to go too far. Just as he had expected, the girl had not listened to a word Barnabas-Basil had said, and had instead taken up a post at Roach’s side, running her little hands repeatedly over the horse’s soft coat. Roach flicked her ears as she saw Geralt approaching, lifting her head to greet the witcher, before dropping her muzzle into his gloved hands and nudging his chest with her velvety nose.

“She’s a very pretty horse,” the girl said, looking up at Geralt, as if she were now the determining judge of such things.

“Roach doesn’t like strangers touching her,” Geralt answered, firmly, running a reassuring hand down the chestnut’s sleek neck. To his surprise, Roach seemed less perturbed by the girl’s presence than he might have expected, as if she had hardly noticed the child petting her at all; small hands made little impression, he guessed, though he had always thought children to be the most heavy-handed of anyone. Roach snorted at the witcher’s touch, bobbing her head, before nudging his cheek affectionately with her nose, and Geralt grinned at the contact, taking her head in one gloved hand, before clicking his tongue softly, letting her know she was in trustworthy hands again.

“Roach?” the girl asked, taking a few steps back to watch the two. “Like the fish? That’s an awful name for a horse. Might as well have just called her ‘Fish’.”

Geralt grunted, watching as Roach tossed her head in his grasp, letting out a soft huff before nuzzling her nose next into his wintery hair. “Roach sounds better,” he answered, not in the mood to argue the name of his horse. Then, with one last pet to Roach’s muzzle, he turned, crouching to the girl’s level, letting out a tired breath and holding out his arms, ready to lift her into the saddle. “Time to head out,” he told her, gruffly. “Come on.”

Just as before, the girl did not argue this unceremonious offer either, stepping forward to be lifted by the witcher as easily as she had taken his hand to follow him into the house. Picking her up under the arms, Geralt lifted her easily off the ground, placing her squarely in the back of the saddle and making sure her legs were secure on either side of the horse. Then, satisfied that she was safe, he hooked his boot into Roach’s stirrup, pulling himself onto the saddle as well and settling in in front of the girl, before pulling gently on Roach’s reigns, causing the horse to bluster to attention.

“Hang on,” Geralt told the girl, glancing back to make sure she was listening. “Don’t want you falling off.”

“Hang onto what?” the girl insisted, kicking her little legs on either side of Roach, causing her shoe-buckles to jingle excitedly and Geralt to clench his jaw. It was amazing, he thought, how so simple a sound could grate so thoroughly on his nerves. “Hang onto you? But you’re too fat. My arms won’t go around.”

Geralt sighed at the answer, regretting immediately his misguided attempt at good will. “Then do the best you can,” he told her, speaking through gritted teeth. Pulling on Roach’s reigns again, he turned the mare towards the stable doors, squeezing her sides gently to coax her out into the vineyard, before steering her towards the path that led to the road into Beauclair. Roach blustered as she trotted the cobbled pathways of Corvo Bianco, tossing her silky mane in the sunlight as she flicked her ears happily in the warm spring breeze.

“My name is Rosie,” the girl suddenly spoke again, leaning around Geralt to address him. Geralt ignored her, keeping his attention on his horse and the road ahead. “The sorceress told me to tell you that,” Rosie continued, undeterred by his seeming indifference. “And to make sure you called me by it as well.”

“Rosie?” Geralt asked, giving a light snap of Roach’s reigns. The horse blustered, picking up her pace, tossing her head as she felt her hooves leave the cobblestones and find familiar dirt again.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted. “That’s an awful name. Might as well have just called you ‘Flower’.”

* * *

The rain had begun to come down in torrents by the time night fell on Orlémurs Cemetery, the howling of the wind in the witcher’s ears the first sign that he should open his eyes from his meditation and prepare his sword for the night’s events. The small stone archway of the cemetery was hardly enough to provide shelter from the bitter onslaught of the driving rain, but Geralt dared not move from his chosen post, not wanting to miss the corpse-eater, should it decide to make an appearance that night. The wet and the cold were little bother to ghouls and grave hags, Geralt knew; the wet soil was ideal for their purposes, making it easy for them to dig up the tasty corpses buried deep beneath the dirt, a difficult task in dry earth, but one which was made much easier with the application of rain.

It was a bleak and grotesque point of view, the witcher knew, but if standing in the rain meant he could rid the world of one more ghoul or grave hag, he did not mind being the one tasked with enduring it.

Geralt looked up as a flash of lightning split the sky, accompanied moments later by a mighty crash of thunder, and he frowned, looking out over the graveyard, his golden eyes flashing as he honed in on what he could swear was a flicker of movement from between the graves. A few seconds later, another blast of lightning spiderwebbed across the sky, illuminating the cemetery enough to see that something was indeed lumbering between the graves – something large, and distinctly nonhuman.

Drawing his sword from the sheathe at his back, Geralt began to weave his way through the rain-slick headstones, barely flinching as the bitter wind whipped his hair around his face, stinging his eyes. A frigid breeze pushed a sheet of icy rain over his skin as he walked, chilling him through to the bone, but he only lifted his sword higher, feeling his breath catch as another flash of lightning glinted off the silver of his blade, throwing an arc of light over the graveyard and silhouetting for the first time the hunched, black outline of a creature hiding behind one of the tombstones. The back of the creature rippled and writhed as it feasted, the sound of snarling, squelching, and the crunching of bones trickling through the rain to his sensitive ears, and the witcher took another few steps forward, lifting his sword at the ready as he approached, ready to spring a surprise attack on the beast before it had a chance to look up from its meal.

From a distance, the beast looked to be a ghoul, just as he had suspected. It was about the size and shape of a ghoul, and it walked on all fours like a ghoul, with twisted, meaty arms like that of a man, and talons like the feet of an enormous bird of prey. Its claws were twice the length of a child’s hand, curving to the dirt like wicked knives, and its hind legs were muscular, built like the legs of a wild dog. Its head was like that of a hideous, misshapen man, with a gaping, snarling maw, filled with rotten, razor-sharp teeth, lethal enough to cause sepsis and death in a man with a single bite.

As Geralt took another step closer to the creature, he suddenly paused, taken aback, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword as he began to notice, for the first time, discrepancies in the creature’s appearance, details that had not been clearly visible from only a few paces back. He could see now the spikes protruding from the creature’s head, trailing down its neck, its spine, and down its back, as well as its unusual colour, which he had earlier attributed to the darkness of the night, but which he now realized was no fluke. Whereas most ghouls and alghouls were brown or dappled, this one was completely pitch black, and Geralt could feel his stomach twist with anxiety and disgust at the sight of the creature, his heartbeat spiking a few beats in his chest as another flash of lightning threw the beast into sharp relief, revealing its gruesomely massive form to the witcher for the first full time.

It was an alghoul, but not one like any he had seen before. On even ground, its head would have reached to Roach’s shoulder, its grotesque, quadrupedal form nearly as long as the grave on which it now rested, gorging itself on the last pieces of a corpse that would have taken a normal alghoul at least three days to devour. Not only that, but, as he took another step closer to the creature, Geralt realized why it had appeared to be of such a reasonable size at a further distance: the alghoul, it seemed, had dug itself a hole down into the grave where it now sat, feasting on the corpse that had once lain within. It appeared that the beast had at first intended to dig up the grave in its entirety, but once it realized it was not a shallow grave like those usually found on a battlefield, it had decided to dig only where the head of the coffin would be, then break it open like an oyster shell and pull the body out.

The idea that any necrophage could have gained such intelligence to formulate a plan like that was beyond unsettling, even for the witcher, and he found his mind consumed with the thought as he stared at the creature, unable to move. He wondered if that was how this particular alghoul had managed to grow so large, its intelligence giving it an extra edge that others of its species lacked, allowing it to grow grotesquely bloated and massive through years of cunning and wile. The thought of an enlightened alghoul was so morbidly captivating to Geralt that he did not even notice as his sword began to grow slack in his hand, until another crack of thunder suddenly wracked the blackened sky, a whipping howl of torrential wind causing the creature to look up from its ghastly meal at last, its beady red eyes instantly coming to rest on the witcher as it realized for the first time that it was not alone.

The alghoul screamed at the sight of its adversary, its spines protruding swiftly from its back in one slick, metallic-sounding motion, and Geralt could hear the familiar rattling hiss over the pounding of the rain, the sound like the clattering of a thousand bones as the spines vibrated against one another on its back, an intimidation display that gave no time to warn before the attack. A second later, the alghoul sprang from the grave, using the headstone as a launching-board to vault itself in the direction of the witcher, leaving him barely a second to drop and manoeuvre out of the way of the creature’s massive claws before the monster made ground. The alghoul skidded as it landed against the muddy soil, handling its enormous body against the challenge of the mire with terrifying ease, the lightning flashing overhead reflecting off the creature’s colossal, thorny form as it arched its crooked, shapeless back, hissing at the witcher as its forest of spines gave another chilling rattle.

“Missed me,” Geralt leered at the creature, holding up his sword, challenging it to try again. The alghoul screeched at the challenge, before immediately stampeding forward towards the witcher again, its deadly claws ripping up dirt and grass as it ran. This time, however, Geralt was ready for it, and as the creature leapt for him, he ducked, swinging his sword towards the monster’s belly, hearing the satisfying scream of the alghoul at the bite of silver across its skin. The necrophage oil he had coated the blade with hissed and sizzled as it ate away at the creature’s rotten flesh, and the alghoul tumbled as it hit the ground, its substantial form causing the earth beneath their feet to shake as it skidded and rolled, only stopping when it collided with a gravestone halfway across the cemetery.

The heavy headstone snapped clean in half as the necrophage slammed up against it, and the alghoul howled in anger as it writhed to its deadly feet again, twisting its body around to face the witcher and rattling its spines once more. Geralt swung his sword around, taunting the creature to come in closer, and the alghoul snarled, starting to circle, before racing forward once more with an inhuman screech, lowering its head in an attempt to skewer the witcher on one of its wicked spines. Geralt rolled out of the way of the oncoming attack, jabbing out again with his sword at the creature, managing to catch the muscle of its hind leg with the tip of his sword, and the alghoul howled as the oil burned its flesh again, kicking out with its strong hind leg and catching the witcher in the jaw.

Geralt barked with pain as the clawed foot connected, sparing a second to ensure his jaw was not broken, but he did not have time to dwell before the creature turned, lashing out at him again with its monstrous talons. Grabbing the nearest tombstone, Geralt vaulted over the top, ducking down behind the stone as the creature’s claw made impact, the sound of stone shattering causing Geralt to flinch as a chunk of carved rock was knocked from the top of the headstone at the strike of the alghoul’s talons. The alghoul screamed, rattling its spines, and Geralt clenched his fist, preparing a sign, before quickly jumping to his feet and expending a blast of Igni into the creature’s ugly face. The alghoul yelped, and then screeched, shaking the fiery blast easily from its face, before lashing out at the witcher again with its massive claws, causing Geralt to leap back to avoid being caught in its strike.

“That the best you can do?” Geralt growled, letting out a hoarse huff of a taunting laugh. The alghoul shrieked, pounding its claws against the dirt, before it suddenly reached forward, grabbing hold of another tombstone, and, with one swift, strong motion, yanking the heavy slab completely free of the muddy earth. Looking up at the witcher again, the alghoul howled, holding up the stone, before launching the slab in his direction, causing the witcher to have to duck and roll out of the way to avoid being hit as the solid stone block came hurtling towards him.

Leaping to his feet again, Geralt breathed heavily, brandishing his weapon, staring in shock between the stone and the alghoul. He had never seen an alghoul use any sort of provisional weapon before, nothing but teeth and claws, and the idea that this one knew enough to use its surroundings to its advantage was not a thought he had wanted to entertain – but it was one he now found would be impossible to ignore if he wished to keep his life even one night longer.

“Damnit,” Geralt swore, looking around for something he could use. The alghoul hissed, baring its teeth, before it began to charge in his direction again, and Geralt swung at the creature’s chest, feeling the satisfying bite as the metal made contact with the creature’s skin. The alghoul howled as the oil burned its skin, swiping out at the sword with its claws, before leaping back several feet away from the reach of the blade. Geralt moved forward, swinging his blade, backing the alghoul against a tree, taking a mighty swing towards one of its front legs as the creature snarled at him, trapped against the trunk.

The blade bit deep in the monster’s flesh this time, carving a sizzling wound from its muscular bicep, and the alghoul screamed, swiping out towards the blade with its claw, before starting to climb up into the tree, using its sharp talons and muscular legs to propel it up into the branches. Geralt swore again, squinting up into the swaying leaves, barely able to make out the form of the alghoul against the gnarled, thrashing branches, the wind and rain whipping the plant into an effervescent frenzy. He could hear the sound of the alghoul’s snarls, but where the sound was coming from was impossible to tell – until a second later, when he found himself knocked to the ground by the weight of the creature’s body, pinned to the muddy earth as the alghoul launched itself from the branches of the tree, again using its surroundings to give it the upper hand against the witcher.

Geralt yelled, grasping blindly for his sword, which had been knocked clean from his hand by the impact of the alghoul against his chest. Then, looking up, he instead twisted quickly out of the way as the alghoul snapped at his head with its jaws, trying to bite the witcher’s face clean off. Geralt kicked, trying to push the creature off, but the weight of the alghoul was far more impressive than the power of his kicks. He gritted his teeth, glaring up at the monster, before balling his hand into a fist and instead punching the creature squarely across the mouth. He could hear the satisfying crack of metal against bone as the studded knuckles of his glove made impact with the monster’s ragged jaw, and the alghoul screeched, its black tongue lolling out, before it staggered, momentarily stunned, allowing Geralt just enough time to push himself out from under its weight, rolling to his sword and grabbing it up before pushing himself back up to his feet.

Letting out another wounded hiss, the alghoul retreated a few paces, before it began to circle the witcher, crouching low to the ground, its tar-black form nearly invisible against the darkened mud. A crack of lightning across the sky illuminated the alghoul’s form, but the darkness that followed nearly swallowed it up entirely, to Geralt’s surprise, and he turned quickly, gripping his sword, listening for the sound of the creature’s rattle, or some squelch in the mud from its heavy claws. There was no way he could have lost a monster that large in a cemetery this small, he thought – though alghouls were intelligent, they were not stealth creatures. There was something different about this alghoul, however, and he found he could not shake the paranoid sensation that it might be even smarter than any other alghoul he had yet come across, and might in fact have more and better tactics than he had prepared for, coming into this fight.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the graveyard, and Geralt quickly turned on his heel, searching the shadows of the headstones for some sign of the missing alghoul, but somehow, the massive creature had vanished into the darkness of the rainy night. Geralt frowned, keeping his silver at the ready, but the patter of rain on the muddy stones was the only sound he could hear over the steady beating of his heart in his ears. Moving to the grave where he had first found the alghoul, he peered down into the slurried dirt, wondering if he should hide and wait for the creature to return for the remainder of its meal – but the thought had not even finished crossing his mind when he suddenly felt something grab hold of his boot from down in the mud, yanking him off his feet and dragging him down with a familiar, bone-chilling shriek.

The weight of the alghoul’s razor-sharp claws dug into the flesh of his heel as he struggled and kicked, fighting to get free, wrapping his arms around the tombstone and thrashing with all his might to try to shake the creature off. A moment later, he felt his boot connect, and the alghoul gave a sharp squawk behind him as it was pushed back into the mud by the impact of his kick. “Teach you to fuck with a witcher,” Geralt growled, letting out a gruff, bitter bark of a laugh, starting to drag himself from the pull of the mud again, but he did not have time to revel in his victory before he suddenly felt the crunch of the alghoul’s powerful jaw close around the flesh of his calf, the creature’s teeth nearly puncturing his armour, leaving painful indents he was sure would be bruises come morning.

Letting out another sharp cry, Geralt kicked at the creature’s face again, only to find that his fight with the monster had only just begun. A sudden, harder jerk on his legs knocked the wind from him entirely, causing his sword to slip from his muddy hand at the unexpected shock, skidding away in the dirt just out of reach as he was yanked back towards the grave again. Twisting around, Geralt saw that the alghoul had climbed out of the hole by now, and was instead attempting to push the witcher down into the mire, intent on drowning him in the dirt.

Geralt could taste rotten flesh in his mouth as he was sucked down into the blackened soil, the driving rain pushing him ever deeper into the mud as he fought in vain to escape. The mutilated remnants of the carcass the alghoul had been devouring mixed in with the dirt as it pulled him under, and he spat, coughing, hoping he had not managed to swallow some part of the unfortunate corpse in his struggling. “Get OFF me, you mutated fuck!” Geralt howled, writhing against the alghoul’s grip, but that only seemed to make it more determined than ever to entomb him in the rotten, blackened mud. He coughed again, spitting and thrashing as a half-liquefied, murky-grey eyeball began to swim its way towards his face, the unfortunate corpse’s half-eaten ear sticking to his armour as he scrambled for a handhold on either side of the grave.

He gasped for breath, pushing his head for a moment above the dirt, only to find his reprieve short-lived as the alghoul pushed him back down again, this time pressing its full body weight against his chest in an attempt to keep him under. He could feel the monster’s curved talons scrape against his chest as they pierced through his cuirass and into his gambeson, the sickly wet weight of the rain-soaked soil engulfing him as he was pushed down into the mud, his lungs burning for air he had not had a chance to fully take in. Geralt thrashed, kicking his legs uselessly against the weight of the monster on top of him, before he suddenly got a desperate idea, and, throwing both hands from the mud, he clenched his teeth, focusing all his might into a frantic Aard sign. A second later, an explosion of energy ripped from his hands, throwing the creature and half the mud and gore surrounding him back from the grave, freeing his mouth and nose at last for him to take a desperate, gasping breath.

The alghoul tumbled over its spines with a shriek of confusion and anger, before skidding to a halt in the mud again, righting itself with a kick of its mighty hind legs and turning to face the witcher once more. Taking only a second to wipe the mud and gore from his eyes, Geralt pulled himself quickly from the detonated gravesite, picking up his sword and swinging it around again to attack position, before facing the alghoul again, breathing heavily as rain poured into his eyes and over his ragged armour.

“Come and get me, you ugly son of a bitch,” Geralt growled, spitting mud from between his teeth.

The alghoul screamed at the taunt, baring its own rotten maw, before starting to barrel towards the witcher again, but this time, Geralt was ready. When the beast was close enough that he could see its beady eyes, he threw out a hand, blasting the alghoul with another dose of Igni, and the alghoul screeched, stopping in its tracks to bat the flames from its grisly face. Taking the opportunity, Geralt swung his sword at the monster, slicing through the top of the creature’s neck, only to jolt as he felt the blade hit something hard beneath the skin, stopping it a third of the way through decapitating the beast.

The alghoul howled in rage at the wound, jerking back to try to dislodge the sword, only to find that it had gotten stuck, wedged into whatever was beneath its skin. The hissing and bubbling of the necrophage oil was nearly drowning out the alghoul’s cries, the acrid smell of burning flesh almost overwhelmingly noxious to the witcher’s senses as it ate its way through the monster’s neck. Giving another hard pull of his sword, Geralt attempted to yank it free, only to have the monster lash out at him with its claws, ripping another hole through the side of his cuirass. Geralt swore at the newest tear, before giving one last yank on the blade, finally managing to wrest it free from whatever had trapped it inside the creature’s neck. Then, swinging again, he aimed for a spot a bit closer to the creature’s skull, only for the blade to once again only go about a third of the way through before it was stopped short by a solid mass just beneath the skin.

Geralt swore again at the obstruction, louder this time, bracing a boot against the howling monster as he worked to wrest his sword loose from its putrid, melting flesh once more. “You’re hard to fucking kill,” Geralt panted, staggering back again with his once-more freed sword. “I’ve got a solution for that.” The alghoul screamed, rattling its spines at the witcher again, and Geralt growled back at the monster, no longer intimidated. Then, lunging for the witcher, the alghoul pounced, ready to pin him to the ground and devour him, but Geralt quickly dropped to the muddy ground, sliding underneath the monster with his sword pointed upward, bracing his blade in his hands as it made brutal contact, splitting the creature from neck to pelvis in one sleek, grisly motion.

Knocked from its leap, the alghoul dropped like a stone, howling and rolling over onto its side as its putrid entrails began to slip from its gruesome body, splattering one at a time onto the muddy soil. Its rotten, inky-black skin sizzled in the rain as the oil ate away at its insides, and it struggled to its feet, turning to the witcher, one of its back legs slipping on its own intestine as it shrieked at him again, weakly rattling its spines in a last attempt at an intimidation display. Geralt panted, wiping mud from his face, holding his sword at the ready again, just in case the creature was in the mood for one more round, but it seemed it had used up the last of its energy. With one last gurgling, guttural snarl at the witcher, the alghoul collapsed, its eyes rolling back as its long black tongue lolled out gruesomely into the blood-soaked dirt.

Geralt held still for another moment longer, not sure if he trusted the creature to truly be dead, holding his sword in attack position as he took a few cautious steps forward towards the grisly corpse. The monster looked dead, truly – its stomach and intestines were lying in a puddle on the ground beside its mangled body, its spines laying slack, mouth open, eyes glassy and devoid of life. It did not move as Geralt approached, and when he reached out with his sword to nudge it, testing to see if it were truly dead, it did not react, its lifeless head merely rolling to one side as he pushed it over with the tip of his blade. Satisfied that the creature was truly dead, Geralt sheathed his sword at his back, before setting to inspecting the damage the monster had done, running his hands over his ruined cuirass with a heavy, aggravated sigh.

The amount it would cost to replace this armour, especially with an upgraded version that would hold up better against attacks like these, was far more than the amount he would be earning with this kill, and he was sure Yennefer would have something to say about his carelessness in destroying this set whenever he returned home to Corvo Bianco. Leaning down to inspect the place where the beast had bitten down, hard, on his leg-armour, he let out a low, irritated growl, realizing that part would also have to be replaced before his next contract, if he could find the spare coin to do so. “Fuck,” he swore, quietly, wiping mud from the ragged greaves. Then, standing again, he frowned down at the alghoul, before turning to give the lifeless body one last, spiteful kick, glad no one was around to witness his moment of petty retaliation.

Letting out another tired sigh, Geralt lifted his fingers to his lips, whistling shrilly across the graveyard, the sound piercingly loud, even over the sound of the driving rain. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he muttered, watching with a weary stare as Roach’s form began to slowly take shape through the murk of the rain, the mare bobbing her head and lifting her hooves in disapproval as she splashed through the muddy graveyard soil. Roach blustered as she approached her master, stepping carefully over the grisly corpse of the alghoul, and Geralt clicked his tongue, petting her nose, appreciative for her loyalty.

“At least you’re always here for me,” he told the horse, earning a shake of her wet mane in return. Hooking his muddy boot into her stirrup, he pulled himself up into the saddle, tugging gently on her reigns and clicking his tongue again to coax her to turn and start back towards Beauclair. Roach whinnied, stamping her muddy hooves a few times, before doing as she was told, starting at an uncertain trot, but picking up speed as they passed through the tiny stone arch of the graveyard, making their way to the dirt road again. “Let’s get paid,” Geralt suggested to the horse, earning a soft bluster in return from Roach. “Then let’s find someplace warm to wait out this rain. I’m sure you’d be happy to have somewhere to lay your head.”

He was glad he had Roach to talk to – she hardly ever judged or scolded him, and whenever she did, it was always for something he felt was genuinely earned. Now, however, she only seemed as intent as he was to get out of the rain, and he leaned low to her saddle, offering as little wind resistance as possible as she galloped her way towards the light of the city. “Fucking thing nearly killed me, Roach,” he told the horse, squeezing his knees to her rain-slicked sides. “They want that alghoul’s head, they can get it themselves. I did my part.” Roach snorted in response to this, a gesture Geralt took as agreement, though he knew the horse did not know enough of his language to truly understand. Reaching out a hand, he patted the side of the horse’s neck, earning another soft bluster in return.

“Good girl,” he told her, grinning down at his faithful companion.


	4. Zinnia

The vineyards of Corvo Bianco were a welcome sight for the weary travellers, and Geralt pulled gently on Roach’s reigns to slow her as they approached the entry arch, wanting to savour his return back home to the place he loved after such a hard journey into town. Roach blustered as they made their way past the familiar flower-beds, the fields of white, pink, and red spreading out like a welcome-mat before them, flicking her ears as a soft spring breeze carried the faintest scent of White Wolf across the fields to greet them. Steering the mare to her stable, Geralt clicked his tongue gently, dismounting with a weary grunt, before leading her into her stall and closing the heavy gate behind him. Roach snorted as Geralt removed her reigns, folding them over the side of the wooden door, before pushing her velvet nose against his cuirass, causing Geralt to chuckle, patting his new armour.

“Sturdier,” he assured the horse, rubbing her nose with an encouraging hand. “Alghoul won’t get through this one. No monster’s gonna take me out anytime soon. Don’t worry.” Grinning at the conversation, Geralt began to unbuckle Roach’s saddle, lifting it off with a huff of breath and setting it aside on its designated stand. “Good girl,” Geralt told her, running a hand along the horse’s flank. “I’ll tell Barnabas we’re home. Then he’ll get you something to eat.” Roach blustered faintly at the mention of food, bobbing her head and tossing her mane, and Geralt patted her side, grinning at the understanding between horse and rider.

Letting himself out of the stable again, he began to make his way towards the main house, letting out a soft sigh as he ran a hand back through his hair, grateful to be home. It had taken a few days to rest and recover after the fight with the alghoul in the Orlémurs Cemetery – one of which had been spent entirely in bathing, scrubbing away until every sensation of rotten corpse had been washed from his skin. Vesemir had teased him once about his city-boy habits, his need for cleanliness after particularly disgusting fights, but he figured he had paid enough dues in filth to afford a bit of basic grooming every now and again. Yennefer liked him better when he smelled like soap than when he smelled like sewage, after all, and there was no arguing with whatever made Yennefer happy, especially with such a large new expense to explain.

Barnabas-Basil was already standing outside the manor door as Geralt approached, and the witcher folded his arms as he came to stand before the majordomo, waiting for whatever news there was to report from his time away. “You received a letter while you were in town,” Barnabas-Basil informed him, drawing a folded parchment leaf from the inner pocket of his house-jacket and holding it out for the witcher to take. “Delivered by a man on horseback, bearing the symbol of the Great Sun.”

“Nilfgaard?” Geralt asked, frowning a bit, taking the letter from the majordomo’s hands. The parchment itself was surprisingly crisp, expensive and heavy from the feel of it, and the letter had been sealed shut with a gold wax stamp bearing the symbol of Nilfgaard’s Great Sun.

“That would be my guess, sir,” Barnabas-Basil agreed. “A rather long way to go for a letter. I paid him for his services from the box you designated for such expenses.”

“Thanks, Barnabas,” Geralt answered, nodding, before turning away and opening the letter to read. If the wax seal had not been indication enough that the letter had come from Nilfgaard’s court, the parchment inside made it abundantly clear, emblazoned with gold leaf and bearing a gold leaf stamp of the Great Sun at the top. Even so, the handwriting that made up the text of the letter was unmistakeable: Ciri had no doubt been forced to sit down and study proper lettering etiquette when she had taken the mantle of Empress, as he could see an improvement in some of her written script, but the majority of the letter was still written in the same choppy, impatient handwriting he had come to recognize when corresponding with Ciri during her time at Kaer Morhen, when he had been forced to take outside contracts and had to be away from the keep and his surprise child for days to weeks at a time.

> _Dearest Geralt,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you and Yennefer well. I apologize for resorting to sending a letter rather than coming in person, but I have not been allowed to leave Vizima since my arrival. Some nonsense about a settling-in period, and having too many things to attend to as newly-instated Empress. It all feels very much like Emhyr’s handiwork, but there’s little I can do about it, and much to be done otherwise. Regardless, I figured that if I could not come to you, then perhaps I could entreat you to come to me instead._
> 
> _I have received some rather interesting news regarding an unusual sighting in a forest in Temeria. I would like to discuss the matter with you personally, as I believe you would have more knowledgeable insight into the matter than anyone else. As I also wish to see you again, I will not include any more information here than that, so you must come see me to receive the rest. I know you have just begun to settle into your new home, but I also know you could never pass up the chance at an interesting mystery. Once this is resolved I promise I will not bother you again, with interesting mysteries or otherwise, and you may return to your life of comfort with Yennefer in Toussaint._
> 
> _I hope you have not grown too fat in my absence, as I would quite like to put my arms around you when I see you again, and will be quite cross if I am unable to do so. I doubt Yennefer would stand for that, however, so I suppose I will see when you arrive._
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _Empress Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon_

Geralt snorted at the last paragraph, warmed by Ciri’s familiar cheek, a trait not even royal life and ruthless etiquette training could strip from her, it seemed. Folding up the letter again, he tucked it fondly into a pouch at his belt, before looking to Barnabas-Basil again and taking in a deep breath of vineyard air. “Where’s Yen?” he asked, deciding to forgo his usual search for his wife. He generally enjoyed the hunt, taking it as a small, domestic exercise to keep his faculties sharp while he was off the Path, but he felt he had employed enough of his witcher senses over the past few days that he could afford a bit of plebeian laziness, now that he was home again.

“Lady Yennefer is in the library, sir,” Barnabas-Basil answered, nodding in confirmation. “I believe she’s writing more correspondence, though when I asked who it was for, she told me that it was for their eyes only, and none of my concern.” He paused a moment, considering this, before letting out a low, tired sigh. “I believe she was upset I would not hand over your letter from Nilfgaard to her,” he added. “Though she does seem to be rather on edge about a number of things of late.”

“And Shani?” Geralt asked, moving quickly past the topic of Yennefer’s discontent.

“She’s in the day-room, sir,” Barnabas-Basil returned, seeming no more eager to pursue the earlier subject than the witcher. “I believe she’s trying to decide which of the spare rooms would work best for the clinic Lady Yennefer keeps referencing. There’s been no word from the duchy about the practice just yet, but I believe the young doctor needed something to occupy her mind while Lady Yennefer was otherwise indisposed.”

“Thanks,” Geralt answered, reaching out to pat the majordomo on the shoulder. “Don’t… tell Yen I’m home just yet. Got a few things to see to first.”

“As you say, sir,” Barnabas-Basil returned, dipping his head in acknowledgement.

Moving past Barnabas-Basil, Geralt let himself into the main house, unshouldering his swords on the fixture by the door before starting to make his way for the master bedroom. Taking Ciri’s letter and Shani’s candles from his belt-pouch, he set them both aside on the bedside table, before starting to change out of his new armour as quickly as possible, stuffing it into the trunk at the foot of their bed. He would have to face Yennefer’s reaction to his unforeseen expenditures eventually, he realized, but that could wait for a time when she was not already feeling irritable in advance of his arrival. Fishing out a set of basic day-clothes instead, he pulled the soft shirt on over his head, flipping his amulet to the outside before stepping into the trousers and starting to lace them up.

It would be conspicuous, of course, to leave home in one outfit and come back in another, but he figured these clothes at least had the advantage of being comfortable, and therefore more easily explained away. It made sense, too, that he would not want to wear the same clothes at home that he had fought the alghoul in – and to his credit, he had at least remembered to bathe at the tavern, rather than taking that filth home with him. If nothing else, he thought, Yennefer would have to appreciate the fact that they would not be dumping runoff from alghoul guts and rotting corpses into their vineyard soil.

Finished pulling on his boots, Geralt stood to his feet again, making sure the clothing-chest at the foot of the bed was securely latched, before grabbing up the candles and the letter from Ciri and starting in the direction of the day-room. The day-room had been built on Yennefer’s request when they had first begun expanding on the property, and it had been one of her favourite spaces when they had first moved in together, but, as with most things, she had eventually lost interest in it, preferring other parts of the house to spend her leisure time. It was an elegant space in its own right, Geralt thought: a well-sized room lined with bookshelves, some stocked with books for reading, others stocked only for show. Large, expensively-curtained windows panelled one full side of the room, allowing a stream of warm spring sunlight to reach even its furthest corners, and paintings of tranquil landscapes and structures half-forgotten to time hung along its walls, along with an unusual, yellowed image of Geralt fighting a giant centipede.

Shani stood in the middle of the day-room as Geralt entered, staring pensively out the windows at the château outside, but she turned as soon as she heard the witcher’s footsteps, seeming a bit dazed at his arrival. Moving further into the room, Geralt glanced around, taking in the changes: four lounge-couches had been spaced out evenly across the floor, two of which he recognized as having been brought down from the room upstairs, and a suitcase of medical supplies sat open on a squat side-table next to one of the settees. A stack of tomes sat beside the suitcase, seeming haphazardly placed for later organization, and Geralt recognized a few of the titles as ones he had seen Shani arranging on her bookshelf the last time he had visited her in her room.

It seemed that, even without the court’s approval to begin work on her clinic, Shani had begun to move her things in in the hope of good news to come; he supposed he could admire her optimism in that regard, though he could not honestly think of a reason the duchy might deny her request. With the war going on outside Toussaint’s borders bringing in constant threats of death and disease, health was more valuable a resource than ever, and Shani in particular was well-known in her field for being one of the best.

“Brought your candles,” Geralt told her, holding them out awkwardly for her to take. “Lavender. Hope they’re okay.”

Shani hesitated at the offered gift, before slowly crossing the room to the witcher, taking the candles from his hand and holding them up to her nose to smell. She let out a soft hum as she exhaled, a small smile crossing her lips at the gift, before looking up at Geralt again, pressing the candles to her chest. “These are perfect,” she told him. “Thank you.” Moving back to the lounge-chairs again, she set the candles down with the rest of her medical supplies, before letting out a soft sigh, staring down at them, as if something had just occurred to her.

“Something the matter?” Geralt asked, frowning a bit at the unusual reaction.

Shani paused, thinking a moment, before taking in a deep breath and holding it in, folding her arms over her stomach as her hazel gaze moved slowly to the floor. “Not really,” she admitted after a beat. “Just… thinking, is all. About everything that’s happening, with… the baby. You know.” She stopped again, her pretty brow furrowing, seeming to be thinking how best to describe what was going on in her mind. “It’s… strange, Geralt,” she decided after a while. “It’s all very strange. Not at all what I’d planned to be doing at this point in my life. But… life is full of unforeseen surprises, I suppose.” Pausing again, she considered her words, before finally giving a weak, half-hearted shrug. “This one is not as terrible as most,” she added, sounding less convinced than she might have hoped. “Just… inconveniently timed.”

Geralt faltered at the commentary, unsure what she expected him to say. “Do you regret coming here?” he asked, concerned.

Shani shook her head, looking up at him again, now fully present in the conversation. “No,” she admitted, honestly. “That’s not it at all. I like it here. With you, with Yennefer… it’s lovely here. I… just hadn’t planned to settle down so soon in life. You know that.” Chewing her lip, she paced a bit across the floor, before turning and sitting on one of the chaises instead, trying to calm her restless nerves with a place to settle her weary legs. “This doesn’t change that much,” she admitted, looking up at him again. “I still believe I can do my work, out in the world, like I want to… go where I’m needed, even with a child on my hip. But…”

“Yennefer wouldn’t like that,” Geralt concluded.

Shani sighed at the observation, looking to the floor again. “I know,” she admitted. “And I’m trying to respect her wishes, even if I don’t agree with them. I said I’d settle down here for a while, until my child is old enough to travel with me, then… who knows, Geralt. We’ll decide when we get there.”

“Yennefer won’t want you to go,” Geralt told her.

“I know that, too,” Shani returned, nodding. “And I appreciate her concern, but… I don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t want you to go, either,” Geralt added, causing Shani to look up in surprise this time. She blinked a few times at the unexpected statement, her petal lips twitching as she tried to think of what to say.

“Well,” she finally answered, shortly. “That’s… a different story.”

Geralt hummed at the answer, his brow furrowing in thought. “Shani…” he said after a moment, speaking slowly. “If you’re right about this being my… my…”

“_Baby_,” Shani finished, a bewildered smile starting to creep at the corners of her pretty mouth.

Geralt frowned, thinning his lips into a hard, nearly inverted line. “Right,” he said, shortly. “If this is my… kid… then what does that, you know… mean?” Cursing himself at his awkwardness, he tried his best to keep his expression impassive, hoping Shani would simply take this as another of his witcherly eccentricities; it was not so much that the word itself was difficult to say – _baby_ – it was more that the concept still seemed so alien that it felt strange and uncivilized on his tongue, as if simply saying the word out loud would cause his mouth to go numb in response.

Shani frowned at the question, smoothing her skirt absentmindedly between her hands as she thought. “I don’t understand,” she admitted after a moment. “It means you’re the father, and the baby is yours.”

“No, that’s—not it,” Geralt sighed, exasperated at his own failure to communicate. “Of course it’s mine. You said it’s mine. I meant… what happens to it. When it’s born.”

“I keep it, and love it,” Shani replied, her tone half-dry with bewildered amusement, a small, knowing smirk curving her pretty lips as she tried to interpret his half-baked questions. Lacing her fingers around her knee, she stared up at the witcher, watching him squirm, allowing him to flounder another moment longer before she finally let out a small, fond chuckle, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Geralt,” she told him, smiling, pressing a tickled hand to her chest. “I think I know what you’re trying to ask. But the honest answer is, I don’t know. There’s no precedent for this sort of thing.” Taking a deep breath, she paused, thoughtful, her hands folding pensively in her lap, before her expression began to fall, no longer able to hide behind a cheery smile.

“I did some reading, of course, from your library,” she admitted, still trying to sound as confident as possible, but Geralt could tell it was getting more difficult to fake the longer she went on. “_Monstrum, Or A Portrayal Of Witchers_… not very flattering, but it’s what I could find. I wanted to figure out what made witchers sterile in the first place, see if I could work backwards from there. There wasn’t much available on the Trials themselves, but from what I did read…” She paused again, twisting her lips, her expression growing solemn as her brow began to furrow. “I don’t know why, but… all this time, I thought your mutations were superficial,” she confessed, seeming embarrassed to admit her mistake. “Cosmetic, I guess. Like glamour magic. I didn’t realize they were actually _engrained_ into your genetic code.”

“Thought I told you,” Geralt answered. “Reason they say we’re not human anymore.”

“Yes, but that’s just it,” Shani said, turning her entire body to face him this time. “That’s what’s making this baby. Those mutated genes. Who knows what kind of effect that will have? Who knows how it’ll turn out?” Turning away again, she pressed a hand to her stomach, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. Then, letting it out again slowly, she rested her hands against her knees, staring intently across the room at the yellowed photograph of Geralt and the giant centipede. “Truth be told, that’s the only reason I came here,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “When I found out I was pregnant, I was confused, but I knew I could handle it on my own. When I realized whose it was, though… that’s when I got scared. I didn’t know what to do. What it meant.”

Geralt frowned as she spoke, feeling his stomach twist with guilt at the thought of the months between the wedding and her arrival, all those months when he had not even thought to check on her, to see if she was happy and safe. She had been travelling in those months, he knew, but she had told him where she would be going, and not even his whirlwind wedding to Yennefer had taken up so much of his time that he could not have written at least one letter. Instead, he had left Shani to callous silence, allowing her to fade to a perfect memory, as if he selfishly expected her entire existence to be put on hold until he was ready to acknowledge it again.

Shani faltered as she thought, wetting her lips, her expression anxious as her gaze began to fall, but she quickly picked it up again, staring determinedly at Geralt across the day-room. “I thought maybe you might have some answers I didn’t,” she admitted, sounding a bit sheepish now. “That maybe you could help explain what was happening to me. Why I was _three months pregnant_ with a _witcher’s baby_. At first I thought, maybe it’s a fluke, maybe it’ll sort itself out on its own. But when it didn’t…” Sucking in another deep breath, she frowned, holding it in a moment, puffing out her pink cheeks before letting it all out in a long, tense exhale. “I panicked,” she admitted. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t mean to intrude on your new life with Yennefer… I had no idea you were married, and nobody told me when I asked where you were living now. I guess…”

She stopped, her mouth hanging open, as if unsure where to go from there. “Well,” she said, closing it again. “I guess nobody knew. It _had_ only been three months. I don’t know about witchers, but for humans, that’s pretty fast.”

“Pretty fast for witchers, too,” Geralt agreed, nodding. “Twenty-plus years of history helped.”

“I guess it would, yes,” Shani agreed, looking away again, sheepish once more. Letting out another sigh, she pushed her bangs back from her face, holding them thoughtfully against her head before finally letting them fall into place again. “I’m sorry,” she told him, shaking her head. “You just got home from fighting some monster, and here I am, making you listen to all my ridiculous worries.”

“Monster’s dead,” Geralt answered, shrugging. “Got plenty of time for worries.” Shani looked up at him at the reassurance, smiling softly, and Geralt could feel a warm, soft glow begin to light in his chest at the sight, but he knew he did not have time to dwell on it just now. He had been home for several minutes now, and although this had been an important stop, he did not want Yennefer to think he was intentionally avoiding her, even if he was, in some part. “Should go tell Yen I’m home,” he said, indicating over his shoulder to the hall outside. “Might start to worry otherwise.” Then, with one last glance at Shani to make sure she was truly alright, he left the day-room, feeling both a bit more at ease and on edge than he had before going in.

Shani was a complicated person, he thought; she was hard on herself, had always been, wanting to be the best she could be, and it worried him to see that she was having such difficulty with that now. She wanted to be perfect, courageous and composed, unflappable in the face of circumstances beyond her control, but, unlike Geralt, she was only human, and right now that was simply unrealistic. Letting out a weary sigh, Geralt forced the thought from his mind, assuring himself that he would look into it later once his consultation with Yennefer was over. Despite his apprehensions about her uncertain mood, he was eager to find his wife after his days spent away from home – he missed her smell, her lips, her hair, every small, sentimental detail about her that made her the woman he loved, and even if she chose to give him hell for his armour, he figured it was worth it just to hear her voice again.

Just as Barnabas-Basil had informed him, Yennefer was hard at work as he entered the library, but that did not deter him as he made his way around her desk, brushing her raven hair away from her shoulder and leaning in to kiss her neck. Yennefer swatted at the witcher as he began to kiss his way up to her ear, wrinkling her nose a bit as his beard tickled against her skin. “Geralt, please,” she scolded, softly. “Must now be the time for that?” Turning to glance back at her newly-returned husband, she took in his appearance with one quick sweep, pursing her lips as she flicked her quill in annoyance at his attire.

“Those are your house-clothes,” Yennefer observed, causing Geralt to sigh inwardly at his failed attempt to avoid confrontation. He should have known that nothing got past Yennefer, particularly when it came to clothes she, herself had picked out. “I assume something has happened with your armour, then?” she continued, looking up at him again, her censorious violet eyes making it clear she knew he had tried to fool her. “There must be a reason you went to the trouble to change before seeing me. Usually you can’t wait that long, and I’m tasked with the smell of sweat and horse on your arrival.”

“Horse isn’t such a bad smell,” Geralt answered, grinning at the scolding. Cupping her face in his hand this time, he kissed her neck again, and then her jaw, making his way towards her waiting lips as she took in a shallow, captivated breath. But, despite his best efforts, Yennefer quickly waved her husband off again, shrugging him away with a jerk of her shoulder as she let out a sharp huff of ruffled breath.

“So was it a ghoul, then?” Yennefer asked, abruptly shifting to another topic.

Geralt blinked at the question, taken aback, unsure what she could be talking about. “What?” he asked, knowing he likely sounded as stupid as he looked.

“The contract,” Yennefer clarified, looking up at him again, her expression forcibly casual. “The one you just took. You said before you left you suspected it would be a ghoul. Was it?”

“Alghoul,” Geralt corrected, frowning a bit at the memory of the fight. Giving up on distracting his wife from her work, he instead moved around the desk again, taking a seat in the chair across from her and settling in as comfortably as he could manage. He considered whether or not to tell Yennefer about the difficulty he had had with the monster – he did not want to worry her, as she already had more than enough on her mind, but she was also the best authority he knew on things outside the realm of expectation. She had always been much more grounded than he had, after all, at dismissing coincidences and trivialities he might otherwise have read too far into, and at letting him know when things he might not have noticed were worth his more focused attention.

“Harder than I expected,” Geralt admitted, rubbing his thumb pensively against his index finger. “Big thing. _Real_ big. Really put up a fight.”

“Well, that shouldn’t have been too hard for you,” Yennefer told him, starting to write again as she listened to him speak. “You’ve fought alghouls before, plenty of times. I’m sure you were just out of practice.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, frowning at the thought. “That wasn’t it. This fight was… different. Alghoul used… tactics. Things I’ve never seen a necrophage do before. Climbed a tree. Used improvised weapons.” At this, Yennefer looked up, intrigued, before folding her hands thoughtfully on the desk in front of her, seeming to be listening a bit more intently at this new turn of events. “Thing tried to drown me, Yen,” Geralt told her, making a face at the memory. “Hid in the mud. Tried to drag me under. Used strategy, even though it was strong enough to take me down on its own. Tried to decapitate it, but… couldn’t. Wouldn’t take. Something about the whole fight just seemed… off.”

“It sounds like you met with an intelligent alghoul,” Yennefer told him, raising her brows at the thought. “You’ve met remarkable specimens before, though, yes? Like that graveir you encountered in Vizima.”

Geralt paused, thinking back to the creature she mentioned, trying to decide if he could justify any similarities between that beast and the one he had just encountered. “Vetala could speak,” he finally agreed after a moment. “His intelligence made him civilized. Reasonable. Convinced him to leave rather than be killed. This alghoul had no interest in being reasoned with.”

“Then it doesn’t sound very intelligent to me,” Yennefer returned, dipping her quill in her inkpot again. “It sounds as though you simply encountered a wily beast who found a clever way to survive. If he was as large as you say, then he probably just figured out a way to adapt to his environment.” Looking down to her letter again, she began to write fervently once more, her pen nearly flying across the page, seeming only half-invested in the words she was putting down as opposed to simply filling the paper with text. Geralt glanced down as she worked, trying to glimpse what she was writing so zealously, managing to catch a few distinct phrases – _licensed physician _and _loyal taxpayers_ most recognizable among them – before giving a soft snort, realizing immediately what the sorceress was doing with her letter.

It had not yet been long enough since her first correspondence for Yennefer to expect a letter back from Anna Henrietta, so the prospect of the duchess granting their request for a license to open a clinic out of their home was still entirely up in the air. Even so, it seemed Yennefer was not taking any chances in the case that she was ignored, and Geralt knew from experience that, if civil courtesy failed, Yennefer’s next form of polite aggression would be to drown the duchy in paperwork, flooding Anna Henrietta’s correspondence with letters of petition until the duchess folded and gave her whatever she wanted. Geralt smirked at the thought of the court’s frustration, knowing full well how stubborn Yennefer could be when she so chose, grateful to have that kind of tireless fervour on his side, as intimidating as it could be.

“A creature like that can’t very well hide out in plain sight,” Yennefer went on after a moment, still speaking matter-of-factly, causing Geralt to look up again, having almost forgotten about the conversation they had been having. “It has to find a workaround. Climbing a tree is a brilliant way to go about it. Nobody would think to look in a tree for an alghoul.” Picking up her letter again, she blew on the wet ink, drying it, before letting out a short huff of satisfaction and looking up across the desk at Geralt again. “With as many hangings as they’ve been doing since the war, there’s plenty of meat to find up there,” she told him, her tone slightly unsettling in its impassiveness, though he guessed that being married to a witcher came with its inherent familiarity to squeamish topics. “It probably just realized there was more food up there than down here, and climbed up to get it.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, still unable to shake the sensation that something felt a bit off about the whole encounter. “And the drowning?”

“Placement association,” Yennefer returned, simply, reaching for her wax seal. “Dead things go in the ground. Put something in the ground, and it becomes dead. Doesn’t take a physician to understand these things.”

“More like a child’s logic,” Geralt agreed, nodding along, feeling suddenly much better. “Guess I just wanted to think whatever was killing me at the time was smarter than the average ghoul.” Sitting back in his chair, he stretched out his legs across the floor between them, folding his hands peacefully over his stomach as he watched his wife work, mesmerized by her productivity. She really was his better half, he thought – while he was busy killing monsters and making a few extra coins for the house, she was handling pretty much everything else, juggling with apparent ease things that would have taken him years to figure out, if he ever did manage to. It was Yennefer, truly, who had even made it possible for them to settle down the way they had, here in beautiful Toussaint; without her, he would have given up on the endeavour months ago, retreating with his tail between his legs to the taxless wilds.

“A monster doesn’t have to be smart to kill you,” Yennefer pointed out, looking up at Geralt again over her desk. “It just has to have the upper hand. Sometimes that’s just about misdirection, or brute strength. You can’t always depend on your smarts to save you.” Touching the blunted end of her wax stick, she concentrated on it a moment, waiting for it to melt, before allowing a few drips of hot wax to fall onto the folded face of her letter. Blowing on the wax stick then, she set it aside, before picking up her stamp and sealing the letter with the emblem of their estate, blowing on the stamped wax to cool it before stashing the letter away in a side drawer of her desk.

“By the way, you received a letter while you were out,” she suddenly spoke up again, causing Geralt to look up in surprise at the change of topic. “I told Barnabas-Basil I would take it and deliver it to you when you arrived, but he said the messenger insisted it be given to you, alone. I told him that whatever was meant for your eyes was meant for mine as well, but he was quite persistent.”

“Just doing his job,” Geralt answered, shrugging. “Can’t blame him for it.”

Yennefer huffed, but seemed otherwise unperturbed, crossing one booted leg over the other as she sat back in her chair at last, staring across the desk at her husband. “So who was the letter from, then?” she asked, glancing down, as if expecting to see it in his hand. “I assume Ciri, from the garb of the messenger. Though I suppose it could be from any other minor noble in one of the Nilfgaardian regions, or a very determined contract-giver.”

“It was from Ciri,” Geralt confirmed, pulling out the letter again and laying it on the desk for Yennefer to take. Pulling the message eagerly towards her, Yennefer smoothed the paper out, running her fingers curiously over the gold-leaf border as she absorbed the content of the note. Her pristine brow furrowed as she read, her lips pursing, but at the last paragraph her expression quickly lifted, and she let out a short, sharp laugh, before looking up at Geralt again, giving him a quick once-over, as if to deduce whether Ciri’s suspicions about him were correct.

“Well, she certainly knows you,” Yennefer told him, pushing the letter back across the desk. “You never could pass up a good mystery.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, folding it up again, protective of what scarce reminders of Ciri he could get. “’Least I’m not fat.” Apart from a painting of the young princess scowling in a party dress he had managed to barter off a merchant in Beauclair, Geralt had very few articles around Corvo Bianco that reminded him of his daughter, a fact which saddened him, though he could understand why it was so. Witchers had barely any possessions while they were on the Path, and apart from the Cat School necklace Ciri had plundered from the witcher-killer Leo Bonhart, she had had very few items at their parting that she could have given Geralt to allow him his allotted sentimentality.

“Not yet, no,” Yennefer returned, amused. “Though it has been only a few months. There’s still time.” Geralt looked up in surprise at this, but Yennefer only pulled another piece of parchment from her drawer, smoothing it out in front of her, intentionally not making eye contact to allow the teasing sentiment time to sink in. “Are you going to answer?” she finally asked, returning to the original conversation after a moment. “Tell her that you can’t take the contract?”

Geralt frowned at the question, having not expected it. “Why wouldn’t I take it?” he asked, confused. “If it’s from Ciri, it has to be legitimate. Probably pays well, too. Don’t think she’d tell me to come out to Vizima for something not worth my while.”

“Or perhaps she just wants to see you, and is using this contract as an excuse,” Yennefer returned, a bit more sharply than Geralt had anticipated. “You don’t know that it pays well. She made no mention of that in her note. What if it’s something dangerous?” Dipping her quill in the inkpot again, she tapped it against the rim, shaking the excess ink from the nib as she prepared to write again. “You know as well as I do that Ciri is a magnet for those sorts of situations,” she told him, looking up at him again as she hovered her pen above the page. “As are you. The two of you together is just begging for something horrific to happen.”

Staring down at the blank parchment in front of her, Yennefer paused, seeming lost for the first time as to what to write next. It was as if the perfect note had been right on the tip of her tongue, but the thought of Ciri in danger had all but erased it. “As long as she’s stuck in Vizima, she can’t investigate this lead, so she’s safe,” she added, setting down her quill, seeming resigned to giving up on her letter-writing for the time being. “Don’t go putting yourself in danger just to make her happy, Geralt.”

“Better reason than most to put myself in danger,” Geralt returned, stiffly. In general, the witcher was more than happy to respect his wife’s decisions on most things, but her resistance to following up on Ciri’s note seemed strangely out of character, especially for her, and he found he could not help a bit of frustration at her inflexibility in that regard. Yennefer seemed to take note of his indignation, as she sat up a bit straighter in her chair as well, her violet eyes sharp as she rested a challenging arm across the desk in his direction.

“And what of me and Shani, then?” she asked, refusing to back down from his gaze. “We’re supposed to be getting Corvo Bianco ready for the arrival of her child, and we still need to convert one of the rooms into a working clinic. Are Barnabas-Basil, Marlene and I meant to do that on our own, without your help?”

“It’s just one contract, Yen,” Geralt returned, holding up a hand, as if to indicate how unreasonable she was being. “Ciri wants me to do it. I can’t let her down. You know I can’t. Besides, it has to be something good, or she wouldn’t ask.” Letting out a heavy sigh then, he shook his head, putting up both hands in a gesture of conciliation. “Look,” he said. “I… don’t have to go just yet. Nothing in the letter said it was urgent. For all we know, could be nothing. Probably be gone before I even get to Vizima to talk to her about it anyway.” Dropping his hands to the armrests again, he leaned back, taking in a tired breath. He was getting too old for arguments like these, and if a bit of domestic help was all Yennefer really wanted, he found he could not resent such a reasonable request, especially right before he left to go on a journey that would leave the two women to fend for themselves until his return.

“I’ll stay for a while,” he conceded, nodding along, feeling the tension start to ease from the room, even as he said it. “Help set things up. Then when things are up and running, I’ll see what Ciri has to say. If the contract’s gone, I’ll visit with her and come straight home. If it’s still available and pays well, I’ll take it. For Ciri.” Folding his hands across his stomach again, he settled in more comfortably in his chair once more, keeping his gaze fixed on Yennefer’s face, gauging her expression as he spoke. Her poise was impeccable, nearly impossible to read, but he had grown accustomed to the smallest details, the twitch in her lips that spoke volumes of annoyance, the slight flutter of her lashes that betrayed surprise. Now, however, she sat with brows furrowed, lips thinned, blinking only slowly, holding her composure until the end of his statement to see just how annoyed she would be with him once he was finished.

“When I’m done, I’ll come back,” Geralt continued, determined to say his piece. “Then I won’t take another contract outside Toussaint again. Just this one, then that’s it. Deal?”

Yennefer stayed silent for a while after he finished, watching him intently, as if expecting him to say something else. Then, letting out a long sigh, she slowly deflated, holding up her hands in a sign of exasperated defeat. “You know I’m not happy about this,” she told him, frankly. “But I never could change your mind on anything.”

“That makes two of us,” Geralt answered, a small smirk curling his lips at the thought.

Yennefer sat back in her chair at the comment, not bothering to fight what they both knew to be true. “I suppose that explains why Ciri is the way she is, doesn’t it?” she asked, unable to help a faint smile of her own at the thought of their foster daughter’s stubbornness. “It’s probably a good thing this coming child is Shani’s. The poor thing wouldn’t stand a chance with the two of us as parents.”

“He’ll be living in our house,” Geralt pointed out, shrugging, his knowing smirk widening at the thought. “We still have a pretty good chance at corrupting him.”

Yennefer smiled at the observation, the first truly happy, peaceful smile Geralt could remember seeing on her face since Shani’s arrival at Corvo Bianco, and he realized that he once again had his chance, if he only acted quickly enough to obtain it. Getting up from his seat, he pushed the blank parchment aside off Yennefer’s desk, before moving around to pull out her chair, lifting her up and out of it with an exclamation of surprise from his wife. “Geralt! What are you doing?” Yennefer laughed, putting her arms around his neck as he set her down on the desk again, but her curiosity was quickly cut short as he knelt in front of her, unlacing her boots, before pulling them off and next moving to unlace the front of her pants as well, pulling them and her panties down to her ankles and spreading her legs.

Yennefer gasped as Geralt went down on her, letting her head fall back with a moan of pleasure, running her hands through his wild hair as he squeezed her soft thighs between his greedy fingers. His hands were rough and calloused against her skin, and she whimpered as he dug his fingers into her porcelain flesh, grasping fistfuls of his hair as she wordlessly begged for more. “How much did you spend on your armour?” she panted, but her question was cut short as she suddenly let out a sharp squeak of surprise, her body giving a jolt as he teased a spot that sent a shock of pleasure up her spine. Yennefer shuddered at the thrilling sensation, leaning back into the warmth of his tongue, letting out a low moan of ecstasy as her legs began to shake underneath her. Biting down on her lip, she rolled her head back on her shoulders as Geralt worked his magic beneath her, every so often allowing a small whimper or moan to escape her as he explored her, pleasuring her with a tongue too talented for any normal lifespan to achieve.

“I should be upset with you,” Yennefer told him, breathing heavily through her words.

Looking up from between her legs, Geralt grinned up at her, adjusting her thighs against his sturdy shoulders as his wet beard glinted in the library light. “You should be,” he agreed, teasingly. “Maybe I should try harder.”

“I like how you’re trying now,” Yennefer told him. “Perhaps try a bit more. Then we’ll see how I feel about it.”

Geralt chuckled, kissing the inside of each of her thighs in turn, before standing again to start unlacing her velvet and leather jacket. Her pale breasts bounded out in perky relief as he loosed the lacing of her skin-tight corseting, filling out the low cut of her soft white blouse as he set the jacket and feathered shrug aside in her abandoned desk-chair. Kissing her neck with eager lips, he began to fumble open her blouse as well, before pulling it up and over her head to join the rest of her clothes in the chair. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Yennefer pulled the witcher in close, kissing him deeply as he slid his hand between her thighs, giving her a taste of what was to come. The sorceress gasped at the shock of pleasure, her teeth dragging down on his lip as he kissed her, before a small smirk crossed her lips as she felt the bulge of his pants brush against her bare knee.

Pulling him in again, she kissed his cheek, holding him close as she leaned in to his ear, rocking her body against his hand as he pressed up inside her. “Your pants stay on,” she breathed in his ear. “That’s how this is going to work.”

Geralt frowned at the instruction, disappointed, before he suddenly sucked in a sharp hiss through his teeth, feeling a vein in his neck start to pulse as Yennefer brushed her hand over the front of his trousers. Her dainty fingers teased a trail along the outline of his bulging cock, and he huffed as he felt a familiar sensation begin to burn anew in the pit of his stomach. “Dunno if I can hold it in,” he panted, breathing hard as he buried his face in Yennefer’s neck.

“Then I don’t know if I can forgive you,” Yennefer answered, grinning, before sliding her fingers around the length of his bulge, feeling as she crested the tip of his cock, where a small spot of precum had already begun to seep through. She could feel the heat pulsating wildly off his member as she moved her hand up and down its girth, and she smirked as he clenched his free hand against the desk, before moving it instead to hold onto her bare back for strength. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her back, and he grunted, shuddering, feeling a sharp shock pulse through his body as he held everything in, before he gritted his teeth, starting to desperately kiss his wife’s neck to distract his agonized senses.

“Surely this isn’t so hard,” Yennefer teased, her supple body languid against his fingers as she rocked into his touch, biting her lip as she felt his rough fingers inside her again. “You’ve had dry spells before. You managed then. I’m sure you can manage now.”

“Usually jerked off,” Geralt answered, gruffly, his breath hot and laboured against her shoulder as he slid his hand across her back, pulling her in against his chest, before starting to kiss his way across her collar-bone, sliding his wet hand from between her legs as he began to make his way back down again. His scruffy beard tickled across her ivory torso as he kissed her chest, her breasts, teasing her erect nipple with a nip of his wolf-like teeth before pressing his lips hungrily against the perky flesh. His hands slid across her milky thighs, massaging them with eager palms as he kissed his way down her ribcage and across her stomach, trailing his mouth over her navel as she gasped, tracing her finger along the scar, before moving her hands to his hair again, playing with its silvery length.

“The White Wolf, masturbating?” Yennefer teased, letting her head loll back again, her raven hair falling in languid cascades behind her as she rolled her shoulders back to meet it. “Surely not. People would be so disappointed to hear the great Gwynbleidd is common like them.”

“Pretty sure there’s a ballad about it somewhere,” Geralt returned, feeling another shock of white-hot urgency pulse through him as the scent of her hair hit him anew, the smell of lilac and gooseberries wafting over him, driving his senses wild. He huffed, biting hard on his lip, pressing his knees together in desperation as he gave a sharp hiccup of discomfort, and then a grunt, and Yennefer looked down at him at the sound, seeming amused with how difficult this was for him. “_Fair princess, rescued in valour’s grace; no payment asked, of coin nor throne—yet mem’ry stayed, and the Wolf, that eve, polished his sword until it shone._”

Yennefer laughed out loud at the recitation, causing Geralt to grin as well in spite of himself, amused that his poorly-recited script had given such joy to his wife. It was good to hear her laugh like this; it had been far too long since he had heard that sort of delighted abandon from Yennefer. He kissed her hips, trailing his lips along her pretty thighs, before he suddenly felt her hands on his face again, drawing him back up towards her face and pulling him in for a kiss on the lips. Her slender arms slid around his neck as she drew him in, smiling as she kissed him, deeply and purely, for what felt like the first time in far too long. “You can take your pants off,” she whispered, still chuckling, her soft lashes brushing against his face as she pressed her cheek to his. “You needed new armour anyway.” Letting out another soft laugh then, she kissed him again, smiling as she did, and as Geralt kissed her back, feeling her slender fingers against the lacing of his trousers, he could not remember a time he was as happy as this.

If this was what destiny had in store, he thought, then perhaps destiny deserved another chance.

* * *

A familiar sensation startled Geralt awake from a deep and dreamless sleep, and he sat up quickly in bed beside Yennefer, grasping for the medallion around his neck. He could feel the wolf’s head trembling in his grasp, vibrating fervently to warn of something near, and he turned to look quickly around the master bedroom to see if he could spot whatever had set it off. Nothing looked different from the way it had the evening before, when he and Yennefer had retired here for some much-needed time alone – the painting of the starry sky still hung on the wall as he had placed it, the golden trophies adorning the shelves standing undisturbed and glistening. The bookshelf in the corner of the room still stood unassumingly half-empty, the books exactly as they had fallen when he had lifted Yennefer up against it the night before, using it as leverage to hold her weight as he fucked her against the polished side.

The last few days since his return back home had been nothing but nonstop moments like these, spurred on, it seemed, by the arrival of Ciri’s letter, and the spontaneity in the library that followed. Geralt supposed it had never really occurred to his wife that they could still be intimate with Shani under their roof, but once the seal on that realization had been broken, she seemed only too happy to be proven wrong. The bookcase had been an impulsive act, following what had been meant to be a normal dinner – but with how things had been going, the dinner had quickly devolved into glances, followed by Yennefer rubbing her leg against his under the table, until eventually half the meal had been forgotten as Geralt’s hand found its way to the sorceress’ lap. She had tried her hardest to keep her composure as he played with his fingers between her legs, but the hand holding her glass of wine had shaken too badly for her to even sip from it, and she had eventually been forced to give up and devote her attention to mounting him on the spot.

Barnabas-Basil and Marlene had long grown used to the activities of their unusual landholders, but even so Geralt had ultimately made the call that fucking at the dinner table should only last so long, and they had eventually retired to the bedroom instead, for propriety’s sake, if nothing else. Now, Yennefer groaned as she felt the warmth of the blankets pulled suddenly off her bare shoulders, and she reached back to grasp at the covers, dragging them back over her naked form. “Too cold for that,” she murmured, tiredly. “Lie back down. Too early to get up yet.”

“Something set my medallion off,” Geralt told her, turning to look down at his wife. “Some kind of magic. Don’t know what.” He paused, frowning as he ran his thumb along the smooth back of the silver emblem. “Keeps going off around you,” he added. “Sure you didn’t do anything?”

“Your medallion’s wrong,” Yennefer answered, yawning, reaching back to find her husband in the bed. Prying his hand away from his necklace, she pulled it instead around her form, tugging him down to the bed with an indication for him to lie back beside her again. “Come keep me warm,” Yennefer insisted, nestling in closer to Geralt’s larger form under the covers. “Forget magic. No magic today. Just your cold wife.”

Geralt frowned at the rude awakening, unable to help feeling a bit on edge about it still, but he slowly did as he was told, nestling back into bed beside Yennefer. Draping his arm around her form, he pulled her in close against his skin, nestling his face into her perfumed neck as she entwined her legs with his. He could still feel the weight of the medallion against his chest as he settled in beside his wife, and he found the thought of whatever had set it off too troubling to allow him to return to sleep – but the familiar smell of lilac and gooseberries was comforting to his senses, and he pressed a kiss to Yennefer’s neck, starting to slowly work his way up past her jaw and to her ear. Kissing her cheek, he moved a bit further across her, pushing himself up in the bed, allowing her to turn over onto her back so he could more easily kiss her lips.

“Someone’s up early,” Yennefer commented, still half-asleep, a smile spreading over her lips as Geralt felt her fingers brush against his already-erect member. “Maybe that’s what your medallion was sensing. Your place of power activating.” Her smile widened at her own joke, and she teased at his cock with her fingertips, before retrieving her hands to pull his face back down to kiss her lips again. She smiled sleepily through her kiss, her fingers trailing playfully through the silver scruff of his beard, before she suddenly laughed, softly, wrinkling her nose and turning her face away. “It tickles,” she told him, quietly, as if afraid to wake others listening in.

“Shave it off, if you want,” Geralt offered, speaking just as quietly.

Yennefer shook her head at the offer, biting softly on her lower lip. “No,” she answered, running her hands across his beard, listening to the crackle of the scruff as she teased it. “I like it. Keep it. Makes you look dashing.”

“Makes me look old,” Geralt returned, grinning.

Yennefer paused, considering, before nodding in agreement, smiling up at him. “True,” she said. “But, _sophisticated_ old. An old man you’d still sleep with.”

Geralt snorted at the answer, in love with her teasing, before leaning down to kiss her again, moving his leg across her form to straddle her in the bed. Yennefer moaned as he kissed her neck, her hands sliding across his muscular stomach to his scarred back, giving a soft gasp as he found his way inside again under the covers. Wrapping her legs around his thighs, she bit her lip, letting her head roll back against the pillow, chuckling faintly as he began to play with one of her breasts, pressing up inside her with a huff of effort. Her raven hair ebbed like a halo behind her as she rocked gently against the downy mattress, arching her back to compliment the motion of his thrusts, the rhythm lazy and slow as they took their time, loathe to wake up and face the day.

Just then, a sudden loud knocking on their bedroom door caused them both to give a start, and Geralt swore as he yanked the covers up, hiding their naked bodies underneath. “Master witcher,” Barnabas-Basil’s reedy voice was somewhat muffled through the heavy door, but they could still hear every word as clearly as if the man were standing in the room with them. “Sir, there’s a visitor here, asking to see you. I believe it’s someone you know.”

“Can it wait?” Geralt called back, exasperated. “Stall them, Barnabas. You’re good at that.” Yennefer covered her mouth with her hands as he conversed with the majordomo, trying her hardest not to laugh out loud, and Geralt felt a grin of bewilderment start to creep across his face as well, despite himself. This had not been the worst interruption the two of them had ever experienced during moments of coitus, but it was still disconcerting to be caught in the middle of something so intimate, unable to finish.

“I can try, sir,” Barnabas-Basil responded, letting out a soft sigh through the door. Then, as they listened, his footsteps began to recede across the floor, until only silence prevailed outside their bedroom door once again.

Letting out a deep breath, Geralt buried his face in Yennefer’s neck, feeling her gentle hands across his back as he gave a low groan of discontent. “Let’s move to the woods,” he suggested, his voice muffled against her porcelain skin. “No visitors in the woods. Maybe people will finally leave us alone.”

“No nice house in the woods, either,” Yennefer reminded him, pushing her hands against his chest. “Come on now. Get dressed. Maybe it’s just the distributor, come for another shipment of White Wolf.”

Geralt grunted at the thought, allowing her to push him into a sitting position, before finally swinging his legs off the bed and getting to his feet, starting to collect his clothes from the floor. Yennefer was still in her underwear by the time he finished putting everything on, and he leaned down to kiss her as she sat on the bed, earning a small smile and a wrinkle of her nose as his scruffy beard tickled against her cheek. “I’ll be dressed by the time you come back,” she told him, giving his medallion a soft, playful tug. “Go see what your visitor wants.” Geralt frowned at the reminder, wishing he could stay a few minutes longer to watch his wife dress, but realized it would be rude to keep his distributor waiting – and so, with one last glance over his shoulder at Yennefer, he let himself out of the master bedroom, shutting the door securely behind him before starting for the courtyard instead.

Allowing himself out the front door of the manor, Geralt took in a deep breath of château air, adjusting his eyes to the early-morning sun before looking around for the majordomo and whatever visitor had come to call. Barnabas-Basil was nowhere to be seen, likely having wandered off when he heard Geralt approaching, but the visitor was easy enough to find, and Geralt felt his heart sink as he recognized the familiar green coat and strawberry hair of a few days earlier. The little girl stood with her hands folded behind her, her bright eyes wide as she waited for the witcher, and Geralt let out a sigh as he approached her, hoping she had come for a different reason this time.

“Rosie,” he commented, surprising himself with the fact that he remembered her name. He supposed she had made an impression the last time they had crossed paths by how singularly annoying she had been, but he pushed the thought from his mind, instead continuing with as impassive an expression as he could manage. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” he admitted, trying his best to stay civil. “Thought for sure your uncle wouldn’t let you go running so far out of town. Again.”

Rosie shrugged at the comment, shaking her head, seeming unfazed by the observation. “My uncle doesn’t control where I go,” she answered, bluntly. “There’s very few who can. They’d have to catch me first.”

“Right,” Geralt answered, quickly losing interest, before starting to turn for the house again.

“What took you so long to come out?” Rosie insisted, drawing the witcher back again, in spite of himself. “I’ve been standing here waiting for _ages_. I thought you’d never come.”

Geralt frowned at the girl’s persistence. “Sorry,” he answered, his tone bone dry. “Weren’t aware you were on a schedule.”

“Of course I am,” Rosie returned, frankly, seeming to completely miss the sarcasm in his voice. “We can’t all simply sit around waiting for work to come to us like you do.” Geralt faltered at the biting remark, wondering if the little girl realized just how viciously a statement like that cut – an innocent lack of youthful tact was one thing, and easily forgiven, but he could not help feeling a few of the girl’s more pointed statements were entirely deliberate. “Speaking of which, I’ve brought you another contract from town,” she added, pulling his attention back as she dug around in her coat pockets for the slip of paper. Just as last time, the parchment was half-crumpled by the time she retrieved it from the depths of her coat, but she held it out proudly towards the witcher regardless, standing on the toes of her shiny shoes as she waited for him to take it.

Geralt frowned at the slip of paper, wondering if it would even still be legible, before taking it gingerly from her little hand and smoothing it out against his chest, hoping to make it at least a bit more presentable before starting to try to read it. “Another corpse-eater,” he commented, his gaze moving down the page. “In the sewers. No other details… hm. Probably a drowner.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Rosie answered, dismissively, seeming bored with the thought of monsters in general, holding the hem of her velvet coat as she spun playfully over the cobbled walk. Noting a particularly large stone in the path, she hopped onto it, balancing on one foot, before jumping off again in the direction of the flower garden, her shoes giving a merry jingle as she landed. “I heard you got rid of the one I brought you last time,” she said then, turning to look up at the witcher again. “Did you cut off its head? I’ve heard witchers take monster heads as trophies.”

“We do,” Geralt answered, folding the contract absentmindedly as he spoke. “Hook them to our saddles. Let people know we kill monsters.” Under most circumstances, he would have been surprised to hear a child show such morbid curiosity in witcher habits, but Rosie had proven an unusual interest in witchers the last time she had come around Corvo Bianco, and he supposed there was only so much one could learn about his kind before it fell to inevitable gore. Tucking the contract into his pocket, he looked up thoughtfully towards the far gate, wondering if posting a monster head there might help scare off other creatures from lurking around the property. It was a good idea in theory, but the smell would likely attract necrophages, he realized, and he also knew Yennefer would undoubtedly put his own head on a pike beside it if he tried to sully the beauty of her vineyard with one of his gruesome trophies.

“So did you cut off its head?” Rosie asked, her eyes wide, stopping momentarily in her distracted spinning.

Geralt shook his head at the question, returning swiftly to the present. “Not this time,” he told her.

Rosie frowned at the answer, seeming genuinely disappointed, a dour expression that might have caused Geralt to laugh, had he been in a better mood. “Why not?” she insisted, balling her little hands into fists in the hem of her coat. “Aren’t you a witcher? _Real_ witchers take trophies.”

“Still a witcher,” Geralt answered. “Just retired.”

“_Real_ witchers don’t retire.”

Geralt snorted at the girl’s response, half-amazed by her brazen cheek; far from being afraid of him, this girl seemed determined, for whatever reason, to drag him across the stones. He wondered if it was his status as a retired witcher which gave her the boldness to do so, or perhaps his reputation as having raised and trained a daughter of his own, or if she was simply too stubborn to be afraid of things that would cause most grown men to soil their slacks. Regardless, he found it rather refreshing to not have to temper his words in front of this strange little girl – she gave as good as she got, sometimes better, a trait which reminded him strongly of Yennefer.

“Your uncle tell you that?” Geralt asked, causing Rosie to pout at the dismissive question. Letting go of her coat, she shook her head, crossing her arms stubbornly over her little chest as she stared up at him, refusing to back down.

“Next time, you should take the monster’s head,” she told him, boldly. “Let people know you’re still in business as a witcher.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, feeling his lips start to twitch upward at the conversation. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

Rosie nodded, seeming satisfied that her advice had been taken into deliberation, before turning and skipping over to the flower plot a few feet away, easily distracted once more. Geralt followed her over, watching as she began to balance her way across the low wooden slat that marked the edge, keeping the soil from spilling out onto the cobbled walk. “Do you have any pets, master witcher?” Rosie asked, glancing up at him before returning her attention to the balancing beam.

“Got Roach,” Geralt answered, indicating with a jerk of his head towards the horse’s stable. “Not really a pet, though. Got a few chickens.”

“I don’t have any pets, either,” Rosie returned, seeming to ignore his comment about the chickens. “I wish I did. I love dogs. And cats. Even the grouchy butcher’s cat comes to be petted when I call him.” Growing quickly bored with her balancing act, she jumped off the low beam again, her buckled shoes jingling as they hit the cobbled walk, before she turned her attention up to Geralt once more, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat. “I think you would be much happier if you had a cat,” she told him, matter-of-factly. “Though it’s probably best that you don’t. You’d probably give it a terrible name as well. Like… Toad.”

“Need a ride back to Beauclair, Rosie?” Geralt asked, realizing all relevant conversation about the contract was likely long over. “Let me grab my gear and I’ll take you back—”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in for breakfast?” Rosie insisted, cutting over him before he had a chance to finish. Geralt blinked at the question, surprised by it, but Rosie only stared back at him expectantly, eyes wide. “You invited me in last time,” she reminded him, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “And I _did_ come all this way just to deliver a contract for you.”

“Didn’t ask for that,” Geralt told her, frowning at the reminder.

“But I did it,” Rosie answered, refusing to be deterred. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Geralt hesitated at the request, glancing once back towards the house, before turning to look down at Rosie again, who had not moved as she waited for his response. Her pink lips were pursed with expectation, her little hands stuffed in the pockets of her coat, and Geralt let out a long, tired sigh as he realized he would probably hear about it from Yennefer if he refused the girl breakfast after such a long walk from town. “Come on,” he told her, waving a hand, indicating for her to follow him. Rosie beamed at the confirmation, bounding eagerly up to join him, and Geralt felt her little hands grasp tightly around his arm as she pulled it down to his side, earning a grunt of surprise from the witcher as he looked down to the girl, annoyed. He had specifically not offered that cordiality this time, not wanting her to mistake his begrudging civility for fondness of any kind, but Rosie only smiled back up at him at the gesture, holding tightly to his arm.

“Do you have any apple juice?” she asked, eagerly, her breathing staggered as she sought to keep pace with his much lengthier strides. “I’d love some apple juice. I’ve only had grape juice for so long.”

“I bet we can find you some apple juice,” Geralt answered, nodding agreeably. In truth, she was not such a terrible little girl, he thought; just a bit overwhelming at times. The attention she got from Yennefer and Marlene was likely the most she got from anyone, particularly at home, where they did not even seem to realize when their child went running off to talk to witchers and share in their food. It made sense, then, why she kept coming back here, with or without the excuse of delivering contracts from town, and Geralt felt a small, guilty smile touch his face at the idea that whoever this girl was, whatever her story, she was here because she liked it here. If even a stranger’s child could enjoy spending time with him and Yennefer at Corvo Bianco, then perhaps there was still a chance that Shani and her child could do the same.

“Think we’ve got some chicken, too,” Geralt added, looking down at Rosie again. “You like chicken?”

Rosie considered the question, before wrinkling her button nose at the thought. “Aren’t the chickens your pets?” she asked, looking up at him again with a small frown. Turning her attention back to the house, she shook her head, readjusting her grip on his arm.

“I’ve changed my mind, master witcher,” she told him. “Please don’t get a cat.”

* * *

Just as Yennefer had told him, she was fully dressed by the time he returned to the bedroom to change for the journey ahead, and she looked on in curiosity as he began to pull the pieces of his armour from the clothing-chest, laying them out on the bed. “You’re leaving again?” she asked, disappointed. “You’ve only just gotten home again. I thought you said you would stay for a while before you left to do anything else.”

“Just a local contract,” Geralt answered, stripping down quickly from his house-clothes, before buckling on his gambeson and pulling his sturdy vest and pauldrons over his head. “Shouldn’t take long. Just another necrophage.”

“There certainly are a lot of those lately,” Yennefer commented, disapprovingly, sitting down on the bed beside his armour as she continued to watch her husband dress. “I thought moving out to Toussaint would mean _less_ bodies in the streets. Perhaps if they tended to that problem a bit more, they wouldn’t need to pay a witcher to clean up their messes so often.”

Geralt grunted at the observation, drawing on his gloves and flexing his hands, still breaking in the stiffness of the new leather. “Not that many,” he assured his wife, looking up at her again, trying to ignore the withering look she was giving him. “Probably won’t be more for a while after this. When I get back, we can fix up the day-room. Turn it into a clinic, with or without Anna Henrietta’s approval.” Pulling on his pants, he laced them up, before reaching for his bracers, noting that Yennefer’s expression had not changed at the offer. “Maybe start on a crib for Shani,” he added, hoping to get a reaction.

At this addendum, Yennefer’s expression lifted slightly, and she looked up at her husband, watching as he buckled his bracers over his gloves before reaching next for his equipment belts. “We’d have to pick it out, first,” she told him, making him stifle a smile at the note of excitement she was trying hard to disguise. “Shani would have to approve of it. But she’s been so resistant to anything having to do with preparation for the baby lately… I’m not sure why that is.” Looking down again, she paused a bit, her pristine brow furrowing in a thoughtful line, before she let out a soft huff, looking up at her husband again for assistance.

“Perhaps you could ask her,” she told him, surprising him, causing him to look up as a small flicker of panic rose in his chest at the thought of having to talk to Shani about something so personal. “See why that is. She won’t tell me… I think she worries I may lack objectivity because of my investment in the situation. But she talks to you about everything. Perhaps you could get her to open up.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, picking up his greaves. “Can try when I get back. Not very good at these things.”

“You don’t have to be _good_ at anything for this, Geralt,” Yennefer returned, standing up from the bed again to address her husband. “You just have to _listen_. Sometimes that’s all women really want.” She paused, considering these words of advice, before leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek, stroking her hand over his wintery beard and patting his chest with a soft, fond chuckle. “Go tell Shani you’re heading out,” she told him, tracing her finger across the scar on his cheek. “I’ll be holding you to your word when you get back. And the crib offer as well. Don’t think I’ll forget. Or that you can make me forget. I know your tricks.” Then, giving his medallion another playful tug, she smiled, before turning to head for the door, allowing him to finish donning his armour and readying his supplies for the contract ahead.

Geralt sighed as Yennefer left the room, tightening his greaves to ensure they would not slip off during combat. He was not looking forward to asking Shani what was bothering her about the baby; their last conversation had given him a pretty good idea, and he was unsure what he could do to change her mind on the matter, or at least put it at ease. Her distress was entirely because of him, and uncertainty of things to come, and he knew he had little to offer in that regard, as he was just as unsure of what the future held as she was. Leaving the bedroom, he grabbed his swords from beside the manor door, sliding the belt on over his head and tightening the strap before passing by Rosie to head up the staircase. The little girl looked up from her breakfast as he passed, watching as he began to mount the stairs, and he could not help feeling a strange, unnerving tension as he rounded the corner, out of her unusual sight.

Shani was sitting in front of the vanity as Geralt entered the guest-room, and he paused in silence at the top of the stairs, unsure if he might be intruding on something private. Unlike Yennefer, who enjoyed letting him watch her preen as much as he enjoyed watching her do it, he had never seen Shani take an interest in her reflection, and could not help wondering if she was aware he was there to see her do it now. From where he stood, he could only see what little was visible over her shoulder, but he could tell she was inspecting her face in the mirror, gingerly touching the apples of her cheeks, making a dour expression as she pressed her fingertips into the almost-imperceptibly-puffier lines of her jaw. Letting out a soft sigh at her changing features, Shani ran her slender fingers over her throat, trailing them down to her collar-bone and pulling the edges of her blouse aside to see her clavicle more clearly underneath.

Geralt frowned as he watched her, feeling a soft wrench of guilt in his gut at her discomfort with her changing body, continuing to look on as she pressed her hands to her stomach, moving them in thoughtful circles across her torso. She stared intently at her reflection as she took in the newness of her form, almost daze-like, and Geralt had to admit that he could not see anything that had actually changed; she was not that much noticeably bigger than she had been three months ago, he thought, though the fact that she still wore a corset likely had something to do with his skewed perspective. Of course, no one knew better than Shani herself how different things actually were for her now, but even so Geralt could not help feeling a bit curious, as he looked on, what three months truly meant, for a pregnancy.

He had no idea if three months was when a woman was supposed to start showing, or four months, or five; he had met women before at six and seven months, and had been able to tell by then, but he had no idea when that timeline changed over, or what to expect when it did.

His curious train of thought was cut abruptly short as Shani seemed to get a new idea, and the witcher raised his brows in sudden, surprised attention as she next moved her hands to her breasts, starting to gingerly push on either side of them as she stared down thoughtfully into her blouse. He knew exactly what she was looking at, and he found, with a bit of embarrassment, that he could not blame her for doing it – he had noticed, himself, in the days since her arrival, that her breasts had begun to fill out in the months since he had last seen her, rounding out to handfuls much more conspicuous than those he remembered from their night on the boat. He found himself wondering, fleetingly, if her breasts would continue to fill out as nicely the further she got into her pregnancy, and for one split second, before he could stop it, he felt a slight twinge of disappointment that he would not be the one allowed to judge such things.

Taking a deep breath, Geralt quickly cleared his throat, hoping to get Shani’s attention with the sound. Cutting this short was as much for his own benefit as for hers, he knew; his first concern, of course, was sparing her the embarrassment of being watched in a moment of private reflection, but he could not deny the added advantage of stopping potential temptation before it had a chance to go any further. He was a married man now, and he owed it to Yennefer to keep those thoughts at bay – a dedication he found admittedly more difficult when he was faced with a beautiful woman fondling her breasts in front of him.

Shani turned quickly at the unexpected noise, dropping her hands immediately from her breasts into her lap, before standing from the vanity and taking a few steps away, embarrassed at having been caught. “Geralt,” she said, her cheeks lighting up, flustered. “I-I’m so sorry. I thought you were with guests.”

“Guest,” Geralt corrected. “Left her with Marlene. She’s in good hands.”

“I see,” Shani answered, nodding quickly. “So… I guess you’re coming to tell me that you’re heading out again.”

Geralt frowned at the shortness of her statement, a bit taken aback by how quickly she had reached it. He supposed she could see he was already in his armour, making his intentions clear, but the eagerness with which she had jumped to the subject still felt a bit like an unceremonious send-off. “Another contract,” he agreed after a pause. “Beauclair. Shouldn’t be gone long.” He stopped again, watching the doctor for another moment, before his brow began to furrow deeper, his hands searching for pockets at his sides before eventually falling awkwardly to rest instead against the sturdy material of his trousers. “Something wrong?” he asked, his voice quieter, hoping to offer a small sense of privacy. They were already alone in her room, he realized, but with a house full of people, it was often difficult to ever feel truly unobserved. “Don’t have to go. Can stay if you need me.”

Shani hesitated at the offer, staring at the witcher with wide, wary eyes, before finally shaking her head, seeming to return to the reality of where she was. “No,” she answered, looking down. “No need to stay. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me, I was just…” She paused, chewing her lower lip, her hands uncomfortable at her sides, pinching the material of her skirt as she stared at the floor, trying to decide what to say. Then, looking up to her bed again, she crossed to sit on its tidy cover, before looking up at Geralt and taking another deep breath. “I was just… worried,” she admitted after a moment. “Thinking about our conversation from a few days ago. I know there’s nothing to be done about it, but I just… can’t stop thinking about it, for some reason.”

Geralt frowned at the answer, before letting out a soft huff, trying to think of what he could do or say to help the situation. He had never been good with words, and worse with creative solutions, but Shani’s distress was enough to push his weary brain into action, and he took a deep breath, hardening his lips into a pensive line as a thought suddenly occurred to him. “There are… books, in our library,” he said after a moment, unsure what else there was to suggest. Shani hesitated at the offer, before turning to look at him again, intrigued by the promise of something else to read. “About witcher mutations. Got them from the lab of that… man, I told you about.”

“The one who ran experiments on his son?” Shani asked, her brows lifting in surprise.

“Mm,” Geralt grunted, affirmatively. “Had a few tomes. One about witchers, and one about… centipedes. Basis for mutagens used in the Trials, I think. Something like that.” He paused, making a face, wrinkling his nose as he tried to remember, before finally shaking his head and looking down at the carpet between them again. “Dunno,” he said. “Didn’t read very much of it. Point is, if you wanted to take a look and see if there’s anything there…”

Shani nodded quickly at the offer, sitting up a bit straighter on the bedspread, seeming to be in a better mood now than she had been only moments earlier. “Yeah, actually. I think I’d like that,” she told him, causing Geralt to look up again at the sound of her enthusiasm. “If it gives me some better insight into this, I think it could be helpful. If I can figure out what that potion you took did, what it changed…” She stopped again, her gaze faltering, staring past the witcher as she considered the applications for the information tomes like the ones he was suggesting might provide. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, shrugging, turning her optimistic gaze to rest on Geralt again. “But it can’t hurt to know more. If anything, it can only help. At least I might be able to better understand what’s growing inside of me if I know what helped to make it.”

Geralt faltered at the strange wording, but said nothing, glad to see Shani back to her old enthusiasm again; this was the way she deserved to be, with her pink cheeks, her vibrant eyes, and her intelligent, impish smile that told the world she was three steps ahead of its plans. “Will you be okay while I’m in Beauclair?” he asked, absentmindedly adjusting the strap on his swords.

Shani leaned back at the question, resting her hands at her sides on the bed, before letting her legs stretch out in front of her, crossing them at the dainty ankles as she tilted her head at the witcher. “Why wouldn’t I be?” she returned, seeming genuinely curious that he felt he had to keep asking. “I’m not an invalid, Geralt. I can take care of myself.” Looking down to the floor again, she paused, staring at her boots a moment. “Besides,” she added, “if I were you, I’d be more concerned about Yennefer.” Geralt frowned at the mention of his wife, wondering if he might have missed something important that had not escaped Shani’s more observant concern, but a soft smile tilting the corners of the doctor’s lips let him know it was not anything so severe.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she’s started researching new subjects while you’ve been off filling contracts,” Shani told him, lifting her hazel gaze to his face again with a puckish grin. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you came back one day to find she’d crocheted you a new suit of armour.”

Geralt snorted at the observation, unable to help a small smirk at the thought of Yennefer poring over a basket of yarn. “Yen would never crochet,” he said, shaking his head. “Thinks it’s for old crones.”

“Perhaps not crocheting, then,” Shani conceded, seeming much more at ease with the now-lighter conversation. “But I did see her looking into tomes on other things, like gardening and local wildlife. I hope you like pets.”

“Don’t dislike them,” Geralt returned. “Aren’t too fond of me, though.”

Shani paused at the comment, before her brows suddenly lifted, her expression changing as she remembered something she had been told. “Oh, that’s right,” she said, sounding a bit more curious. “Animals don’t like witchers. I wonder why that is?”

“Cats can sense magic,” Geralt answered. “Absorb it. Hone it. Redirect it. See through invisibility. Don’t like the energy witchers give off.”

“And dogs?” Shani asked.

Geralt snorted at the question. “Dogs are just assholes,” he answered, frankly.

Shani grinned at the answer, amused by the witcher’s endearing gruffness. “Are there any animals you _do_ like?” she asked. “I can’t imagine _all_ animals are averse to witchers.”

“I like Roach,” Geralt answered.

“That can’t be it,” Shani returned, shaking her head. “There have to be others. More than just Roach.”

Geralt paused at the question, his brow furrowing as he tried to think of every animal of note he had ever encountered; most of the creatures he met in his travels were monsters, which explained why they would have an aversion to him and his kind, and it was not common for villagers to keep pets apart from the ones already mentioned, which made this difficult. It seemed odd to him that Shani would be suddenly so invested in his feelings towards animals, but he supposed an inherent softness towards helpless creatures held implications for the empathy he was capable of showing any other dependent being – such as a newborn baby. “Eskel had a goat,” he answered after a moment. “Li’l Bleater, I think. Liked it well enough. Horse, too. Scorpion. Good, strong horse.”

“Horses and goats, then,” Shani returned, a small, incredulous smile crossing her lips. “Got it.” Looking down at her hands on the quilt, she paused, considering something, before finally pushing herself up off the bed, instead crossing to the spot on the floor where the couch had once sat, but which now stood empty. Staring down at the space on the floor, she frowned, folding her arms thoughtfully across her chest, before tilting her head and taking in another deep breath, letting Geralt know she was about to say something.

“I think I met Eskel while I was in Kaedwen,” she said, the topic surprising Geralt, though he was not sure why. “After I left Novigrad. He was traveling through the Kestrel Mountains on horseback, with his little goat following behind.” The witcher frowned, taking a moment to think back to what Eskel might have been doing in that part of the world, or what might have occurred for him to have crossed paths with Shani during her line of work. Eskel and Shani were both only people, of course, and the world was not so large that it was impossible for people to meet entirely by coincidence, but for some reason he found it difficult to consider those two parts of his life meeting in such an uneventful way.

Shani did not seem to notice his apparent confusion, her own pretty mouth twisting thoughtfully to one side as she considered everything she had just said. “I think that was what made me notice him in the first place, really,” she added, causing Geralt to look up at her again. “I thought it was so unusual for a man to be traveling with a goat. He seemed like a good man, though. If a little bit lonely.”

“Sounds like Eskel,” Geralt confirmed, his expression not lifting from his troubled frown. “Not sure what he’d be doing in Kaedwen, though.”

Shani turned at the comment, looking back towards the witcher, her own expression lifting to one of surprise. “Isn’t that where Kaer Morhen is?” she asked, as if that were the most obvious answer.

Geralt grunted at the observation. “Exactly,” he said. “Said he’d never go back after the fight with the Hunt. No idea why he’d be hanging around Kaedwen unless it was to visit the old fortress.”

“Maybe he changed his mind?” Shani suggested, but Geralt only shook his head.

“Don’t think so,” he answered. “Unless…” Trailing off, he thinned his lips, his golden eyes growing hard as he stared at a spot on the floor between their feet. The only other explanation for Eskel to be traveling through that part of the world was if he was on his way to Caingorn, though Geralt doubted even sentimental Eskel would dare to reopen a wound so precarious as that. It had been more than forty years since any member of the Wolf School had spoken to or about Deidre Ademeyn, but he supposed it was possible Eskel had decided, after the death of Vesemir, that life was too short to hold onto bad blood, and had set out to make amends with the woman who had once been his ill-fated child of surprise. The thought was quickly pushed from his mind by the memory of their last encounter, however, and he shook his head again, letting out a soft sigh as he turned his distracted gaze back to Shani once more.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, firmly. “Point is, that sounds like Eskel.” He paused a moment then, before adding, “Think you’d like him, actually. If you got to know him.”

Shani faltered at the comment, seeming a bit surprised, before she began to slowly tilt her head again, her hazel eyes thinning as a small, knowing smirk began to work its way across her face. “Geralt,” she scolded, playfully. “Are you trying to pawn me off on one of your witcher friends?”

Geralt hesitated at the question, taken aback, unsure whether or not she was joking. “No,” he finally answered, deciding honesty was the best response. “Just saying Eskel’s a good guy.”

Shani chuckled at his awkward reply. “You’re a pretty good guy yourself, Geralt of Rivia,” she told him.

Geralt grunted at the comment, feeling a faint twist of guilt in his gut at how untrue he knew it to be. “Hm,” he answered. “Dunno about that. But… thanks.”

* * *

Rosie was nearly finished with her breakfast by the time Geralt returned from the upstairs bedroom, and he settled into the chair across from her with a long exhale, stretching his legs out to give them a rest before the long ride ahead of them into town. Turning to look across the table, he watched in interest as the little girl ate, working her way awkwardly through her poultry with her too-large fork and knife. He could hear her shoes jingling under the table as she sat, kicking her little legs as she enjoyed her meal, and he paused as he found himself staring at her emerald coat, lost for a moment in concentration. It was a nice coat, he thought, though it looked a bit worn – converted, perhaps, from something larger, recycled into a child’s cloak to preserve what parts of it were still salvageable for use.

He looked up again as he felt the girl’s eyes boring into him from across the table, only to realize that she had lifted her gaze from her plate and was now staring intently across at him, fixing him with a penetrating expression as she finished the last of a large bite of eggs. “I got this from my mother,” she told him, seeming to realize what he was looking at. “I don’t remember her… I was too young. But people say she was really nice.”

“How old are you, Rosie?” Geralt asked, frowning a bit at the information.

Rosie paused, swallowing her next bite as she continued to kick her legs under the table. “I’m six!” she told him finally, smiling across at him. “I’m old enough to start witcher training.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered. “You sure like witchers.”

“I _love_ witchers,” Rosie returned, nodding enthusiastically. “Nobody will talk to me about them, though. Except my uncle, but… he doesn’t know much.”

“So you live with your uncle?” Geralt asked, now a bit more curious.

Rosie shook her head, spearing a mouthful of potatoes onto the end of her fork. “No,” she answered. “I live with my father. But he doesn’t let me do anything. My uncle lets me do things, so I like spending time with him more.” Shoving the potatoes into her mouth then, she began to chew happily, bouncing in her seat, and, glancing down at the girl’s plate, Geralt frowned, wondering where so much food could have gone into such a tiny frame. It was true what they said, he supposed, that children were as voracious as witchers, if given the chance; he remembered how ravenous Ciri had been when she had been training at Kaer Morhen, going so far as to throw a fit in front of Triss when she was deprived of her usual fare, but she had been put through intensive exercises back then that this girl likely only dreamed about. Still, Rosie certainly had energy enough to burn off whatever she ate, so he supposed it made sense that she would need more fuel than he might have otherwise guessed for someone of her diminutive size.

“Your dad’s probably just afraid to lose you,” Geralt told her, honestly.

Rosie shrugged, setting down her utensils, before reaching out with both hands to pick up her cup of juice. “I don’t know,” she answered, frankly. “He won’t tell me. He doesn’t talk to me much. Especially about witchers. He hates witchers. That’s why I like talking to you. You’ll talk with me about them.”

“Hm,” Geralt returned, leaning on his elbows towards the girl. “Your dad can’t like you delivering contracts for a witcher, if he hates them that much.”

Rosie shook her head again, taking a deep drink of apple juice, before setting down the cup with a satisfied exhale. “I don’t think he knows,” she answered, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve. Geralt felt a muscle in his jaw twitch at the motion; Yennefer hated when he did that, himself, and the thought of her reaction to nice velvet stained by sticky juice was enough to make his skin prickle with anxiety. He wondered, faintly, how many other behaviours living with Yennefer had trained out of him, but realized it would take too long to count all his bad habits to determine which ones she had convinced him to stop. “He’d try to stop me if he did,” Rosie added. “But he can’t really stop me. I always find a way.”

“Your dad’s probably just trying to protect you,” Geralt told her, a bit annoyed by her defiant attitude. Coming around to deliver contracts to protect her home was one thing, he thought, but coming around just to show up her father’s concern was another, and he found himself feeling suddenly less inclined to take on anything she brought him. Even so, he had already agreed to investigate this current job, and he was not the type to go back on his word, even to this little girl, as maddening as she might be.

Finishing off her last bite of potatoes, Rosie crossed her utensils in her plate, before pushing her chair back from the table, causing it to scrape audibly across the rug. Geralt flinched faintly at the dragging sound, resisting the urge to check if she had damaged the carpet, but he did not have time to think about it before the little girl was at his elbow again, her hands shoved into the pockets of her coat as she rocked eagerly on her heels. “I’m ready to go to Beauclair now,” she announced, licking the last trace of juice from her lips. “My uncle will probably be wondering where I am if I don’t come back soon. I didn’t say where I was going.”

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” Geralt grunted, getting up from his seat. Holding out his hand for Rosie to take, he resisted a small grin as she grasped his arm, taking to her position like a puppy trained to a treat. “Already in enough trouble as it is,” he added, starting to lead her out the door and towards the stables. “Don’t need your dad and uncle mad at me, too. Witchers get a bad enough rep. Don’t need kidnapping added to my list.”

“Don’t worry about me, master witcher,” Rosie told him, bounding ahead of him as they reached Roach’s stall. Turning around, she held up her arms, waiting for him to place her on the back of the saddle, before wrapping her arms around his waist as he settled into the seat in front of her. “My uncle says witchers aren’t as scary as people say,” she added, pressing her legs securely to Roach’s sides as Geralt pulled the horse around. Geralt lifted his head, surprised to hear that, but told himself to wait, knowing the other shoe was sure to drop. “He says they’re really only a threat to monsters and pretty women,” Rosie informed him. “They have specialized weapons for both, but he says pretty women only need worry about close combat. I’m not worried about close combat. I can get away. I’m quite fast. My uncle says monsters are the only things where witchers’ projectiles actually work.”

“There it is,” Geralt grumbled, letting out a heavy sigh at the insult. Pulling back on Roach’s reigns, he clicked his tongue to the horse, leading her out of the stable and onto the cobbled vineyard walk. “Don’t think I want to meet your uncle,” he told the girl, coaxing the mare into a trot. “Don’t think we’d get along.”

“I think you’d love him,” Rosie told him, nodding enthusiastically against his back. “Everyone does. That’s what he says.”

“I’m sure he does,” Geralt replied, dryly. Then, leading Roach to the edge of the property, he squeezed his boots to the horse's flanks, before snapping her reigns and pushing her into a steady gallop towards town.


	5. Eglantine

The sound of Roach’s hooves against the polished stones of Beauclair’s streets was oddly satisfying to Geralt’s ears, and he clicked his tongue as he pulled on her reigns, slowing her to a steady walk. The mare tossed her head at the prompting, giving a soft bluster and flick of her ears, but she did as she was told, pacing slowly through the streets of the Lassommoir quarter until another pull of her reigns drew her to a stop in the middle of the main square. Dismounting his steed, Geralt led her to the edge of the pavilion, knotting her reigns to a tying-post beside a public water trough, before reaching up to take Rosie under the arms and lifting her down as well, setting her gently on the ground before looking up to see what he could observe.

If anyone here was aware or afraid of the corpse-eater in the sewer, they were certainly not showing it; merchants and labourers meandered the streets, sipping wine and talking merrily as if nothing was amiss, and day-drunk young lovers sat reading paper-thin poetry beneath the shade of a nearby bookstore portico. The only sign Geralt could see that something was slightly off was a heavy wooden disc sitting conspicuously in a corner of the pavilion, covering what he assumed to be a manhole in the town’s quick-fix attempt to stifle the problem he had been summoned to resolve.

Turning to look down at Rosie again, the witcher propped his gloved hands on his hips, watching as the girl petted Roach’s mane while the horse drank patiently from the trough. “Where can I find whoever put up this contract?” Geralt asked, causing the girl to look up again.

Rosie paused at the question, taking a moment to stare blankly at a side alley of the city square, as if trying to remember something she had seen or heard earlier that day. Then, turning, she pointed to a tavern down the street, a stalwart building with a sign depicting a humanoid-looking fox, likely a gathering-place for working-men from the weathered look of it. “There,” she told him, matter-of-factly. “The Clever Clogs. He’ll be in there. His name is Rudin.” Then, turning to look up at the witcher again, she stared up at him with expectant eyes, and he frowned, unsure what she wanted from him, but unable to help feeling wary about whatever it was.

“Do you take all the contracts you’re told about?” Rosie asked, curiously.

“No,” Geralt answered. “Only the ones brought to me by annoying little girls.”

“How do you know which ones to take and which ones to leave?” Rosie pressed, ignoring his snide remark.

Geralt sighed, realizing he would not be getting out of this conversation as easily as he might have hoped. “Sounds interesting, I take it,” he answered, more honestly this time. “Sounds like a waste of my time, I let someone else deal with it.”

“Who else can deal with it?” Rosie asked. “There aren’t that many witchers around.”

“Not my problem,” Geralt answered, shaking his head. “Can’t go chasing every bump in the night.”

Rosie frowned at this answer, seeming dissatisfied. “You’re not very nice, you know,” she told him, causing him to look down at her at the observation.

“Don’t get paid to be nice,” Geralt answered, bluntly. “Get paid to kill monsters.”

Rosie’s countenance twisted at his answer, and she crossed her arms, making a sour face, but Geralt only grunted at the ugly expression, making an equally unimpressed face in return. Letting out a hard huff, the girl uncrossed her arms, before turning and heading off up the cobbled street in the direction of what Geralt guessed was Beauclair’s art district, though it was easy to get turned around in such an enormously varied city. He squinted after the girl as she ran, wondering now if her uncle might be an artist of some sort – that would certainly explain why his attention was so split on the girl, as well as his narcissistic and biting disposition. Geralt had known artists who could get so wrapped up in their work they completely missed important things going on right in front of them, and he figured a fast little girl could easily slip out undetected while her artist uncle was hard at work on a new painting or sculpture.

Frowning a bit at the thought of Rosie wandering the streets unsupervised, he let out a short breath, before reaching for Roach again, petting her assuredly behind the ears. “Good girl,” he told her. “Hopefully won’t be seeing that one around anymore.” Then, tightening the strap on his swords for good measure, he turned in the direction of the tavern Rosie had indicated, starting to head towards the dim yellow windows and weather-worn siding of his next contract.

The tavern was already relatively lively as Geralt entered, filled with both lantern and natural light, and the witcher frowned as the smell of dirt and salt water hit his senses like the side of a barn. That was what working-men did in the Lassommoir district, he figured – they worked the vineyard soil, built fine houses for aristocracy, and unloaded trading-ships down by the docks, all to keep the extravagance of the artisanal duchy running smoothly. He had no idea which of these rough-looking men drinking in the middle of the afternoon was Rudin, but he figured that would reveal itself with time, and so, crossing to the bar, he sat himself down, indicating for the barman to pour him a drink while he waited.

“White Wolf,” he requested. “In a mug. No glass.”

“No glasses here, master witcher,” the barman returned, shaking his head. “And no White Wolf, either. You want something fancy, you go to the Pheasantry. Here we just have vodka or ale.”

“Vodka then,” Geralt answered, nodding, trying to remember the last time he had actually had a mug of the stuff. Since moving to Toussaint, he could only ever remember drinking wine, or the occasional artisanal liqueur, but good strong vodka had been his drink of choice on the Path when White Gull was not available, and he found himself feeling suddenly nostalgic for the taste of it – like iced metal going down, warming his stomach like a winter fire. As the mug was pushed his way across the bar, he could smell it long before it touched his hands, and he grinned as he picked it up, bringing the tankard to his lips. There were things he did not miss about being a witcher, things he did not so much mind about allowing his body to soften in the cushioned luxury of Corvo Bianco, but the good strong drink that came with treading the Path was one thing he found he could never quite walk away from.

“Master witcher?”

Geralt hummed in his throat, halfway through his swig of vodka, finishing off his draught before turning to see who had approached to address him. Just as he had suspected, it had taken less than a few minutes for his conspicuous presence to catch the right eye, and he furrowed his brow as he took in the appearance of the man who now stood before him. “Rudin,” he guessed, leaning back against the bar. “Heard you’ve got a contract. Monster in the sewer.”

“Yes, master witcher,” Rudin agreed, wringing his hands as he nodded. “The girl told me you’d come. Couldn’t believe it… contract’s only been up since this mornin’ or so. But, here you are. Guess she was right.”

“Guess so,” Geralt answered, feeling his hand clench around his mug at the confirmation. He wondered how early ‘this morning’ had to mean by Rudin’s standards, before realizing that, for him to have gotten off work by now, he had to have been up before the sun to hang the contract and start his shift. What a little girl would be doing up wandering the working district at that hour was beyond the witcher to guess, however, and the idea of her walking from Beauclair to Corvo Bianco in the dead of dawn was another thought he could not quite rationalize. That being said, there was no other way she could have gotten to his estate by so early in the morning, unless someone had specifically brought her there; she had said she was fast, but that particular trek still seemed a bit _too_ fast for the witcher’s liking.

“So what is this monster?” he asked, still wary, taking another sip of vodka.

“’Twas a ghoulie,” Rudin answered, making an indicative motion with his hands into the shape of gnarled claws. “A big, big ghoulie. Might’ve been two ghoulies stacked, but at least one of them had nasty sharp teeth.” He bared his teeth as he said this, as if to demonstrate for the witcher what he was talking about, and Geralt frowned at the yellowed gaps, hoping the man’s poor care for his teeth was not due to a lack of funds. As much as he liked Beauclair, he could not afford to work for free, but he figured this man seemed like a decent enough individual, despite his apparent flair for the theatrical. He seemed enthusiastic in his concern over whatever monster it was he was trying to describe, at least, so Geralt had to assume he would be happy to put up the required coin to be rid of it.

“You mean a ghoul?” Geralt asked, hoping to clarify, folding his arms as he listened to the man’s tale.

Rudin paused as he considered the question, tapping a blackened finger to his chin, and Geralt found his gaze drawn in surprise to the horrific state of the man’s nails. Most people who lived and worked in Beauclair took special care to keep their fingernails clean – even the working-men Geralt knew would usually wash their hands after a day of labour – so the state of this man’s hands seemed unusual, though not quite strange enough to distract the witcher from the matter at hand. “Not sure,” Rudin finally answered, shrugging, drawing Geralt’s attention to his face again. “Don’t think so. ‘Twas mighty big to be a ghoul. Ugly, too, whatever it were. Saw it devouring a corpse while I was down in the sewer.”

Geralt’s frown deepened at the final statement. “What were you doing in the sewer?” he asked.

Rudin shrugged again at the question, seeming less concerned than Geralt might have expected. “Looking for corpses,” he answered, simply. “Has to be someone’s job, you know. Fools go down there all the time, lookin’ to escape from the law, or tryin’ to find hidden passages into places they can’t get into. Or sometimes people murder others and then dump the bodies down there.” He folded his arms at this last comment, sniffing offhandedly. “It’s a respectable occupation,” he added, sounding entirely unperturbed by the morbidity of his own description. “Corpse-collecting.”

“Hm,” Geralt returned, his mouth thinning into a hard, unsettled line. “And who pays for that?”

“The city, mostly,” Rudin answered, nodding in agreement with himself. “Keeps the waters clean and keeps corpse-eaters away from town. Prevents diseases… oh, and the smell can get to be atrocious otherwise. Just better and more sanitary to keep an eye on it, make sure too many bodies don’t pile up.”

“Certain your ghoulie wasn’t a drowner?” Geralt asked, eager to return to the topic of the contract. “They can get pretty tall.”

“’Twasn’t a drowner, no,” Rudin answered, shaking his head, solemn and assured. “I knows drowners. Seen enough of them on the shorelines when I’m out there.”

“Collecting corpses?” Geralt asked, dryly.

“Collecting corpses, aye,” Rudin agreed, seeming to completely miss the deadpan sarcasm of the witcher’s tone. “You wouldn’t believe how many wash up on the shores.”

“I believe it,” Geralt sighed, taking another swig of vodka. “So, about your ghoulie…”

“Ugly bugger,” Rudin said, making his attempt at fangs and claws again. “Big fella, too.”

“Right,” Geralt answered, starting to get annoyed. “Anything else you can tell me? What sounds it made, or anything about it other than just that it was… big?”

Again, the corpse-collector paused at the question, tapping his grubby fingers against his scruffy chin, but Geralt found the man’s grunginess much less distracting this time, having now discovered a valid reason for why his hands might be covered in filth after a day’s work. “Now that you mention it, I do recall hearing somethin’ of a slurping sound before I rounded the corner on it,” Rudin said after a moment, shaking a pensive finger at the witcher. “Terrible noise, it were. Thought it might’ve been the muck down there, you know. Very well may have been, so don’t take my word for it. But… possibly, yeah. A slurping noise.” Then, having said this, he paused again, thoughtful, before screwing up his face in a look of defeat, crossing his arms over his chest once more and giving another offhanded sniff.

“Truth be told, though, once that thing caught sight of me, I didn’t stick around to get an eyeful,” he added. “I turned and ran, like any man might do. Any man but a witcher, that is.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, nodding slowly. “Big thing making a slurping noise. Thanks.”

“Come with me, I’ll show you where it is,” Rudin offered, waving a hand for the witcher to follow. “Finish your drink and I’ll take you down. Er… show you where to go down. I’ll not be going down with you.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” Geralt answered, dryly, finishing off his tankard of vodka. Then, setting the empty mug down on the bar, he stood to his feet again with a warmed exhale, before indicating with a jerk of his chin for Rudin to lead the way.

Leaving the tavern, Rudin waved for Geralt to follow him into the street, eventually leading him back to the town square, where Roach still stood, waiting patiently for her master’s return. For a man tasked with collecting corpses, Geralt thought, Rudin seemed oddly small for the job, though he supposed any man could seem somewhat small to a six-foot-three witcher. Placing two fingers to his yellowed teeth, Rudin let out a sharp whistle, getting the attention of two teenaged boys who had been fishing idly at the edge of the wall overlooking the river. Dropping their fishing-poles into the street, the boys scrambled quickly to the corpse-collector’s side, before moving on his signal to instead stand beside the wooden disc Geralt had noticed earlier at the edge of the square.

“The ghoulie’s down there,” Rudin told him, pointing to the wooden cover. “We plugged the hole to keep it from coming out. Not sure it could’ve done, even if it’d wanted to, but… better safe than sorry, as they say.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, frowning at the covering, before looking up to catch the eyes of the two young men. “Cover it back up after I go in,” he told them, pointing to the wooden closure as he approached. “Don’t expect much trouble, but you can never be too sure. If I knock three times, open it. Not before then.”

“Be careful down there, witcher,” Rudin warned, calling out as Geralt came to stand beside the manhole, waiting for the two young men to lift the lid so he could climb down inside. The lid lifted off with a grunt of effort from the boys, and Geralt let out another weary sigh as he stared down into the abyss, not looking forward to the smell and filth he knew would be waiting for him below. Lowering himself into the hole, he secured his boot into the first rung of the descending ladder, starting to make his way down, before he suddenly felt a small shadow cross over his face. Looking up again, he squinted into the fading light, taking a moment to see who was standing over him, only to quickly recognize the face of the corpse-collector peering down at him from the side of the hole. Rudin’s brows were raised as he stared down at the witcher, his mouth twisted, hands clenched into the dingy material of his once-expensive tunic, looking the world like a worried mother watching her child play on a dangerous beam.

“Try not to die down there, if you would,” Rudin entreated, sounding less concerned for Geralt and more for himself, a fact which did not help the witcher’s building irritation. “If you do, it’ll be me who’s tasked with pulling up your corpse. And you look rather heavy. No offense.”

“No offense?” Geralt repeated, now more frustrated than ever. “How the f—” But he found his objections siphoned off by the closing of the wooden lid, sealing him and his undeclared exasperations in the darkness of the Beauclair sewers.

* * *

Geralt dropped from the final rung of the ladder onto the culvert floor, and he grimaced as he heard the squelch of sewer mud beneath his boots, knowing full well much scrubbing it would take to get the smell out of his armour once he was done down here. Pulling a vial of Cat from his belt, he downed the potion in one quick swallow, making a face as the tart taste of berbercane made its way down his throat, before closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath, allowing the potion time to take effect. Opening his eyes again after a moment, he blinked a few times, looking around the now-much brighter sewer, before drawing his silver sword from its sheathe and starting to make his way down the trail, careful to step only on the banks as he walked, not wanting to soil his boots further in the putrid water.

The sewers were louder than the witcher had anticipated, and he listened closely for any unusual sounds, trying to block out the persistent din of flowing water and squeaking of rats as he did so. The smell of the sewer would likely have caused a man with a lesser constitution to vomit, but Geralt had dealt with smells like this before, and worse, though he could not quite place what those might be, at the moment. Even so, he was already looking forward to the bath he would take at the local inn once this was over, and to never having to go down into any more city sewers again, if he could help it. That would have to be added to his hiring specifications once he was out of here, he decided – no more sewers, no more portals, and, gods willing, no more vampires.

Geralt treaded as softly as he could through the mud, making sure to watch that he was not stepping on any rats, peering around a corner of the waterway and making a quick sweep before rounding it to continue his search for the monster. Rudin was right – whatever efforts Beauclair had put into cleaning these sewers had apparently worked, as, apart from the potential corpse-eater, Geralt found the place to be impeccably well-maintained, relatively speaking. He had been in a few sewers before in his time hunting monsters, and had seen the worst humanity had to offer in that regard, but he found that this waterway in particular had a notable lack of trash, bones, and other signs of societal indifference.

What a corpse-eater would be doing here of all places, rather than residing in a more criminal waterway, was a mystery to him, though he supposed that relied heavily on expecting necrophages to have working means of logic. Necrophages only thought about the smell of rotting meat, he knew, and if even one corpse had been allowed to decompose down here, that would be more than enough to draw in any number of drowners or ghouls.

Turning another corner in the sewer, Geralt suddenly stopped as a new sound began to reach his ears, and, lifting his head, he narrowed his eyes, listening for the sound of slurping Rudin had described. Hearing the telltale noise, the witcher hummed, pleased to be on the trail, before starting in the direction the sound was coming from, gripping his sword at his side as he prepared to meet the monster head-on. The sound of slurping grew louder as Geralt followed it through the sewer, joined quickly by the sound of crunching and the wet, meaty tearing of flesh, and, making a face at the thought of the monster gorging itself on a fresh corpse, he crouched low, treading quietly as he came upon a corner where the sound appeared to be the loudest.

The horrific slurping and crunching of bones echoed off the sides of the culvert corridor as the witcher approached, and he slid a bottle of necrophage oil from his belt, prying off the cork and pouring it over his blade, listening to it sizzle as the potion adhered to the metal. “Let’s see what you are, then,” Geralt muttered, before rounding the corner on the monster, holding his sword at the ready as he prepared for whatever was to come.

The creature was faced away from him as he stepped out from the cover of the sewer wall, hunched over only a few yards away from his waiting blade. It appeared too enraptured by its meal to even notice the hunter approaching, and Geralt made a face as he crept a bit closer, the slurping and crunching sounds growing louder and more visceral in his ears with every step. Even bent as it was, the monster was still incredibly tall – likely eight feet standing, if the witcher had to guess. It was also incredibly wide, with heavy rolls of fat sagging over its massive sides; Rudin had not been exaggerating when he had said it would not fit through the manhole, it seemed, though the sheer size of it still managed to make the witcher a bit unsettled to look at, knowing how many corpses it had to have eaten to have gotten that way.

The monster’s skin was grey and ashen, but even from a few paces away Geralt could see how tough it was, hardened into calloused channels over the protuberant veins running a grotesque map across its ghoulish flesh. Its back was pockmarked with two nearly-uniform rows of gruesome, pustule-looking growths, protruding from either side of its flabby spine in pulsing, purplish boils, and all the way from its wicked, curved claws to its rough-skinned elbows was stained a dark, noxious red, as was the skin from its massive, flat feet to its knotted knees. From the smell alone, Geralt could tell that this was not its natural colouring, but coats upon coats of caked, rotting blood, and he frowned as he stared at the unusual creature, trying to remember if he had ever learned about a beast like this in any of his studies at Kaer Morhen.

The monster had certain attributes to it that reminded him of a graveir, though there were enough parts that did not match up to make him severely doubt that – but as he took another step closer, Geralt felt something suddenly give under his boot, and he swore under his breath as his heel cracked down on a brittle bone hidden under a layer of mud. The bone gave a loud _pop_ as it collapsed under his boot, and the monster straightened quickly at the unexpected noise, before turning to look back towards its unwelcome guest, seeking the source of the interruption.

With the creature now facing him, Geralt could see that it held a corpse between its massive hands, though the poor sod was barely recognizable as human in its current state: its thigh-bones had been broken in such a way that they protruded from its flesh like spikes, and its spine had been broken in half so severely that the body now sagged at an impossible angle. He could also observe a few more details about the monster itself, now that he no longer had to be stealthy about it.

It was a hairless creature, with hard, red, bone-like spikes protruding from its head and back, and layer of fresh blood ringing its mouth, dripping down onto its flabby stomach. Its gruesome face lacked eyelids or lips, though it did have a bulbous, fleshy nose, the corners of which nearly touched its too-close, glowing milky eyes. Its ears were triangular, deformed, nearly folded in on themselves, and its mouth was like something from a nightmare: massive, round, and ringed with rows upon rows of sharp, jagged, unaligned teeth. White viscera dribbled from the monster’s chin, dripping in coarse globules from its vacuous mouth, and as Geralt watched, its long, tapered tongue slithered out from between its teeth, slurping up what marrow still clung to its hideous maw.

The witcher felt his stomach turn at the sight of the creature’s tongue: long, nearly purple, and worm-like in its thinness, clearly designed to clean out the soft, fleshy marrow of the bones its teeth were built to crush through. From the look of most parts of this creature, his best guess now was that it was some kind of massive cemetaur, though something about the parts which did not match up bothered him in ways he could not quite place. He felt he should have been able to, considering how familiar they felt, but, as he tried to decide what detail he was missing, a new sound suddenly caught his attention, and he looked up again as the cemetaur began to shudder and shake in front of him. A moment later, its hagfish-like mouth opened wide in a gurgling roar, and as the witcher watched, six dripping, veiny tentacles began to snake out from behind it, unfurling their sickly forms from, he guessed, the pustules on its back he had taken note of earlier.

The creature howled as its newly-expanded tentacles writhed around it like a gory halo, and Geralt felt his stomach drop to his knees at the sight of this new development. The body of the monster, apart from its girth, was definitely indicative of a cemetaur, he decided – but the tentacles and mouth, as well as the body mass, were almost certainly that of a zeugl.

Slitting his glowing eyes against the darkness, the witcher adjusted his grip on his sword, glancing over the monster as quickly as he dared to look for some sign of weakness. He had fought both of these monsters in their basic iterations before, but it stood to reason that a hybridization might have strengths and weaknesses its contributing factors lacked. “No clue what the fuck you are,” he growled, baring his teeth at the ugly creature. “Doesn’t matter. Your head’s gonna look good on my saddle.” The cemetaur screamed at the taunt, and the witcher snarled back, just as animalistic. Then, lunging for the creature, he swung his sword at its fatty chest, only to choke and swipe blindly as his leg was pulled out from under him by one of its tentacles.

The cemetaur lifted him into the air, swinging him wildly around, and Geralt felt his breath leave him at the sudden change of equilibrium – but he gained it back quickly, gritting his teeth as he sliced at the slimy membrane with his sword. An acidic hiss erupted from the cut as the oil burned the monster’s flesh, and a spurt of blackish fluid jetted out from the wound as it writhed, spraying the witcher in the face with a liquid the consistency of runny pus. Geralt gave a shout of disgust at the sensation, wiping the liquid from his face, before kicking at the tentacle again and taking another swing at it with his sword. This time the blade cut deep into the flesh, severing the tentacle almost halfway to the core, and the creature squealed as it let him go, dropping him in the mud, squarely on his head.

Geralt panted as he pushed himself to his knees again, dazed for a moment by the fall, and he staggered a bit as he returned to his feet, only to quickly pick up his sword again, starting to run for the creature once more. The cemetaur howled at the witcher’s resilience, thrashing out at him with another tentacle, but Geralt slapped it out of the way with another strike from his blade, watching as the tentacle writhed and sizzled as the broad side of the metal connected oil with flesh. Swinging at the cemetaur, Geralt sliced at its arms, cutting deep as the creature threw up its hands to defend its face, and he grinned at the satisfying scream from the monster as the blade oil bubbled against its skin.

He did not have time to enjoy his victory, however, before another tentacle darted out from the six at the monster’s back, attempting to grab him from the front; he swung at it, warding it off, but did not notice as a second tentacle snaked around from the back, seizing him up by the ankle again and dragging him up and off the ground. The cemetaur hoisted Geralt up in the air, roaring as it swung him helplessly about, before twisting him around and slamming him, hard, up against the stone roof of the sewer. The witcher gave a sharp bark of pain as his spine connected with solid rock, getting only a moment to recover his breath before he was slammed into the ceiling once more. Still dangling from the creature’s grasp, he kicked, swinging his sword around blindly, trying his hardest to aim for the monster’s face, but the cemetaur only swung the witcher away again, keeping him just out of sword’s reach.

Geralt writhed in its grasp, but his struggling did no good, as a second tentacle quickly snaked out from its mass to join the first, grabbing the witcher by the arm this time and stringing him between the tentacles like a pig on a spit. Geralt struggled against the creature’s grasp as the cemetaur flipped him around, handing him off from one pair of tentacles to the next in an effort to keep him unbalanced, kicking blindly as he was manhandled and growing dizzy as he tried to keep track of the ground. Just then, a sudden sharp shake from the monster’s tentacles sent his sword flying out of his hand, and the witcher watched in horror as his blade hit the floor, sinking a few inches down into the mud. The cemetaur gurgled as it watched the blade fall, swinging the helpless witcher gleefully around to its head, before dangling him over its hagfish maw and opening its jaws wide, preparing to feast.

Geralt had heard tales of people being swallowed whole by zeugls, but the relative size of this hybrid’s mouth made him suspect he would probably be going down in chunks if it tried anything like that – and so, with one last useless kick to its tentacles, he bent over double, reaching to his boot, undoing the straps holding it in place and letting himself fall out of it. His foot slid easily from the armoured shoe, and he twisted himself around as he fell, slamming his body into the creature’s face before rolling off its flabby back and springing quickly to his feet again. Grabbing his sword from the mud, Geralt swore softly at the sacrificed boot, knowing Yennefer would have his head for losing another piece of armour so soon – then, lunging for the monster, he sliced at its back, his blade cutting deep into one of its tentacles, cutting the appendage nearly halfway off at the base.

The cemetaur screamed at the blow, its tentacles writhing, and Geralt found himself knocked clean off his feet as one of them slammed into him from the side, stunning him with a blast to the ribs. He coughed as he fought to regain his breath, pushing himself quickly to his feet again, before diving out of the way of a second attack as another tentacle came darting towards him. Swinging his sword again, he felt it connect, this time slicing the attacking tentacle right down the middle, and the cemetaur shrieked at the newest affront, waving its wounded tentacle wildly through the air, spraying the witcher and the sewer with the same black viscous fluid as before.

Geralt growled as he shielded his face, before leaping for the next tentacle slithering his way, swinging upward with a skilful sweep and cutting the appendage clean off. The tentacle writhed on the muddy floor as the last pulses of life drained from it, before it finally lay still at the witcher’s feet, seeping black fluid into the channel. Wiping at his face with a satisfied smirk, Geralt lifted his sword again, lunging for the cemetaur, before carving a brutal slice across its tentacles as another one darted out to grab him. Jumping back from a second attack, the witcher swung at the tentacle, knocking it out of the way, causing the appendage to sizzle as it retreated back behind the cemetaur once more. A third tentacle lunged out next, trying to grab him, but again Geralt reacted quickly, ducking and rolling swiftly out of the way, before jumping to his feet and blasting the monster in the face with a dose of Igni.

The cemetaur howled, covering its face, before it began to barrel forward, hands outstretched, intent on overtaking the witcher with its bare brute strength. Its tentacles fanned out around it as it bounded towards him, shockingly fast for something so large, but Geralt was quick to jump out of the way again, sending another blast of Igni into the monster’s face for good measure. The cemetaur screamed at the newest attack, slapping the fire away from its head, before a tentacle suddenly shot out from its mass of appendages, striking the witcher square in the face. Geralt staggered at the blow, his vision swimming with stars, feeling a faint trickle of blood starting to seep from his nose – but he did not have time to recover before he was slammed up against the sewer wall, trapped between the monster’s gargantuan weight and the reeking corridor stone.

He could feel his lungs burning as the cemetaur crushed him, using its massive body to smother him as it trapped him up against the wall. Its snarling maw was open wide above him as it pushed its body up against him, its tentacles writhing around its gruesome form like snakes, and he struggled for breath, kicking his legs, fighting uselessly against the monster’s weight. His vision began to darken in his eyes as he clawed uselessly at the monster’s girth, until a sudden _crack_ from his ribcage brought him sharply back to reality, making him realize that, if he did not act quickly, this could very well be the end. Wriggling his hand down to his belt, he fumbled blindly along its side, feeling until his fingers closed around a familiar shape. Then, pulling up the bomb to show the monster, he lit it with a burst of Igni from his hand, before grinning up at the cemetaur as realization began to slowly dawn on its ugly face.

“Open wide,” he choked, tasting blood on his lips. Then, shoving the bomb down the creature’s surprised throat, he retrieved his hand before it could become the cemetaur’s next meal, quickly casting Quen on himself and covering his ears.

The cemetaur gagged at the new obstruction, turning its head away as it began trying to cough it up, but the bomb did not have time to make it all the way up its gullet again before it went off with a sharp, muffled noise at the back of the monster’s throat. The creature screamed as flame belched out of its open mouth towards the witcher, and Geralt could swear he heard a dull, metallic _thunk_ as the bomb detonated in the cemetaur’s throat – but he did not have time to think about it as the flames flew forward towards him, sparking wildly against the force of his shield, causing him to grit his teeth as he felt the heat starting to puncture through his spell. He had expected the bomb to work, to blow the creature’s head off, but it seemed this monster was somehow tougher than even its hardened bone structure and sturdy mass had made it look.

The cemetaur staggered back, shrieking and gagging, finally freeing Geralt from its crushing weight, and he gasped for air as his vision began to clear, feeling the sharp pain of his broken rib as his senses began to return in full. Pushing the thought aside for the moment, he quickly grabbed up his sword again, using it to push himself unsteadily back to his feet; it took a good second to regain his equilibrium, and he could still feel his arms shaking as he lifted his blade, but he looked on in satisfaction as the cemetaur writhed, clawing at its chest as it vomited up burnt tissue and half-digested carcass onto the sewer floor. Spitting blood from his mouth, the witcher snarled at the wounded creature, before letting out a yell and starting to charge forward for another strike. The cemetaur turned at the sound of his shouting, using one of its remaining tentacles to slap him out of the way, but Geralt was back on his feet in no time, ducking another swing as he lunged for it once more.

The cemetaur’s skin was tough against his sword as Geralt swung for its fatty stomach, and he could hear the sizzling of oil on flesh as his blade bit through the monster’s weighty form. A line of blackish blood welled up across its abdomen as his blade drew across it, and the cemetaur shrieked in protest at the attack, but the witcher only grinned, drawing back his blade again, before bringing it down against the cemetaur’s neck to decapitate it for a clean-cut kill. He felt his stomach drop, then, when instead of the clean strike he had intended, he felt his body gave a sudden jolt, and he stared on in horror as his sword was, once again, wedged firmly into the side of the creature’s neck. Panicking, Geralt braced his boot against the monster’s stomach, feeling his heel begin to slip into the cut he had made as he tried to pull his sword free from its meaty neck – but the cemetaur only howled at the witcher’s struggle, before grabbing him tightly by the throat, using its blood-stained claws to lift him victoriously into the air.

The cemetaur’s tentacles waved around it as it stared up at him with dead, milky eyes, its purple tongue snaking out from between its teeth, making Geralt’s stomach turn at the sight of the worm-like appendage. The witcher writhed in the creature’s grasp, seeing stars begin to swim in his vision as its fingers crushed around his throat, but he did not have time to think before he found himself suddenly thrown into the mud at the cemetaur’s feet. Gasping for breath, Geralt reached up quickly, taking hold of his reddened throat; the creature had not killed him – that was a surprise. It could have easily crushed his larynx, had almost done so from the feel of things, but had decided not to follow through, for whatever reason.

Perhaps there were more things out of place with this creature than he had initially realized, he thought. Perhaps along with its hybridization came a sense of humanity, one disparate from either of its contributing parts.

The thought of the creature’s potential humanity was short-lived, however, as he suddenly felt the cemetaur’s foot press down on the back of his skull, driving him face-first into the mud and using its weight to keep him from surfacing for air.

The witcher thrashed against the heavy restraint, clawing desperately for a handhold in the mud, kicking uselessly as he fought to find something to use to fight his way up for air. Throwing back his hand, he signed for Igni, blasting the monster with a burst of flames, and the cemetaur howled, angered by the spell, before Geralt felt its foot leave the back of his head, only to be replaced instead by its bony knee, its massive claws reaching down to pin his wrists against the muddy floor. He could feel the sharp spur of a broken bone against his palm as his body was pressed deeper into the muck, and he thrashed uselessly against the cemetaur’s grip, feeling his ribs straining and cracking in his chest as the monster kneeled on his caving spine.

He could taste blood pooling in the back of his throat as he fought against the creature’s grasp, the liquid bubbling up like vomit over his tongue, and he hissed for air between his teeth, feeling his mouth seethe with mud as he fought to find a pocket to breathe from. His head ached like death, ready to burst, and he could hear his heart pounding like a funeral bell in his ears, nearly drowning out the monster’s snarls as it pushed him down further into the mire. He could feel the dribble of liquid marrow and saliva leaking down from its grisly maw onto the back of his neck, the hilt of his sword still stuck in the creature’s neck jabbing mockingly into his back every time the monster leaned down over him, and he tried his hardest to cast Yrden, hoping to startle the monster into letting up – but with the lack of oxygen he could only feel his hand spasming into unknown shapes, unable to bend his fingers to cast.

Another _crack_ in his ribcage sent a spark of panicked adrenaline to his brain, but it was only enough to alert him that no other part of his body was working; with the weight of the monster on top of him, everything was numb, and his consciousness was quickly going black. Blood bubbled uselessly around his face as he sought to turn his head under the monster’s grip, but it seemed even that was impossible, and as the sound of the cemetaur’s roars began to fade in his ears, he suddenly felt something unexpected: the familiar sensation of a weak vibration against his chest in the mud. He did not fully register the sensation until a second later, when a loud booming sound reverberated from somewhere deeper in the sewer, causing the cemetaur to look up, startled and distracted by something a bit further down the darkened corridor.

As the monster looked up, its weighty grip loosened ever so slightly on the witcher’s wrists – unintentionally, Geralt was sure, but he was not about to question a chance to free himself from imminent death. Taking the split-second opportunity, he quickly slid his hands out from beneath the cemetaur’s claws, before using one last desperate burst of dying consciousness to cast Aard up and behind his back. The monster shrieked as it went flying, staggering back a few feet through the mud, and, finally able to lift his head, Geralt took in a deep, life-giving breath, vomiting up mixed mud and blood as he began to crawl towards the nearest wall. Gripping the stone wall, he dragged himself upward, sitting against it as the sensation of life began to return to his legs, and he gagged again, vomiting more mud and blood as the cemetaur howled in anger.

Gritting his teeth at the murderous creature, Geralt wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, before pushing himself the rest of the way to his shaky feet, holding himself upright against the wall. “Come on, you ugly fuck,” he croaked, barely recognizing his own hoarse voice.

The cemetaur screamed, starting to barrel towards the witcher again, its heavy, angry footfalls causing the ground of the sewer to shake beneath its weight, and Geralt huffed, spitting out blood, before starting to run forward towards the monster as well, meeting it head-on. The cemetaur swiped for him, attempting to grab him between its meaty hands, but Geralt ducked, before blasting it in the face with Igni again, causing it to shriek as its hands flew back to its face. Using its distraction to his advantage, the witcher hoisted himself up onto the creature’s stocky front, using its sturdy arms as leverage to grab hold of his sword’s hilt. Then, bracing his remaining boot against the creature’s face, he pulled on the sword with all his strength, trying desperately to dislodge his blade from its thickset neck.

The cemetaur choked as the witcher’s boot slammed into its face, shrieking at the obstruction, before it quickly reached up, shoving the leg down and into its mouth instead. Geralt howled in pain as the cemetaur’s hagfish maw closed around his calf, its rows of teeth crushing into his flesh as it sucked his leg further down its throat, and he let out a bark as the sword finally dislodged, the weight sending him falling back to dangle awkwardly from the creature’s jaws. He could feel a shiver of pain course through him as his leg was sucked down the creature’s throat up to his knee, its teeth boring into his flesh as it went, devouring him alive, slowly and painfully. He hissed in agony at the sensation, a froth of spittle trickling unpleasantly up his face with the flow of gravity – but then, thinking quickly, he moved his sword to one hand, before twisting around and blasting the ground with a desperate burst of Aard.

He was not even sure this would work – he had never tried anything like this before – but he figured anything had to be better than being eaten alive. He was pleased, then, when the manoeuvre went exactly as he hoped it would, providing him the needed boost to flip him rightside-up again, and he quickly hooked his remaining free leg around the creature’s shoulder, sitting on its protruding gut as he looked up squarely into its dead, glowing eyes. Lifting his sword so the creature could see it, he watched as the cemetaur’s expression changed, its vicious snarl lowering to a look that made it clear it knew exactly what was about to come.

“FUCK OFF!” he yelled into the creature’s face, before drawing his sword back behind his head and driving it down with a satisfying crunch and splatter through the top of the monster’s skull. Black blood sprayed from the cemetaur’s head as the sword split down to its ugly nose, splattering Geralt’s face and chest with chunks of rotten meat, and he pulled his sword slowly from the creature’s skull as its jaw finally went slack, releasing his leg and allowing him to fall to the floor of the sewer again. Letting out a grunt of pain, Geralt dragged himself away from the dying beast, clutching his bloody leg as he watched the monster’s remaining tentacles jerk and writhe. The cemetaur wavered for a moment in stasis, seeming unwilling to go down just yet, before it finally fell first to its knees, and then onto its front, eventually coming to lay completely still, facedown in the mud.

Sheathing his sword at his back, Geralt hissed as another shot of pain raced through him, drawing in his leg and pulling off his boot to inspect the extent of the damage. The boot peeled off uncomfortably, dripping with sticky, viscous fluid, and he let out a discouraged grunt at the sight of his leg free from the leather; the cemetaur’s teeth had punctured straight through his armour, drilling nearly an inch into the flesh of his calf, and he growled in pain as he pried a lost tooth from one of the deeper bite-marks. Black liquid oozed from a few of the wounds, dribbling down his leg into the sewer mud, and he hummed as he opened his potion-satchel, searching for a bottle of Swallow to dull the ache.

Geralt frowned as he pulled out the little red vial, realizing he would have to choose between his ribs and his leg, before deciding that his leg was probably more important and uncorking the bottle to pour it on. The potion bubbled against the witcher’s skin as it seeped into his open wounds, and he gritted his teeth at the stinging sensation, before a numbing effect began to take over in its place. Letting out a sigh, he inspected the cuts on his leg, noting that some of them had already begun to heal, but a few still gaped raw and bloody, needing a second or third dose of Swallow to close them.

“Shit,” he swore, quietly, knowing those would turn into more scars for Shani to fret over. Pulling his ruined boot back on then, he dragged himself unsteadily to his feet, before turning and staring down at the dead cemetaur, remembering the strange blockage in the creature’s neck that had prevented him from taking its head in the fight. Limping over to the monster, he knelt down beside it, pulling his hunting-knife from his belt, before picking up the creature by its ugly head and dragging it into his lap to work. His cuts were precise, practiced and deep, his expression steely as he sawed his way through the monster’s neck, and it did not take long for his knife to find whatever had prevented his sword from going through; feeling around the mass with his blade, he found where the strange obstruction began, and he cut at it, going down and around, until finally prying up an oval-shaped hunk of flesh from the side of the creature’s neck.

Turning the mass between his hands, he scraped carefully at the skin with his knife, shedding it off one layer at a time until he reached the end of the meat. Then, holding up what was left, Geralt frowned at the item, observing what now looked to be a man-made disc, a meticulously-shaped and stamped chunk of metal about the size and weight of a horseshoe. “What the fuck?” he whispered, turning it over, squinting at the plate as he tried to read what was written on its damaged face. What part of the writing had not been worn off by being attached to the creature’s flesh had been marred beyond recognition by a large, deep cut, clearly where his blade had tried to make its way through, and the darkness of the sewer made it nearly impossible to see much else about the plate otherwise. Even so, Geralt could not help feeling strangely on edge as he stared at the disc.

He had the distinct sensation that he had encountered something like this before, though he could not quite place where, or why he would have had an opportunity to come across something like this. Whatever it was, he thought, it had to have been during some time before Ciri brought him back, though what it could be and where he could have encountered something like it was beyond his ability to guess.

Stuffing the disc in the pouch at his belt, Geralt pulled his trophy-hook around next, using it to dig through the flesh of the monster’s head, working it into the meat and through the brain until he felt it lodge securely in place. With the head now secured, he set it aside, before dragging himself painfully back to his feet, turning next to wrestle his second boot from the tentacle of the now-dead cemetaur. He sighed as he stared down at his ruined boots; the new, stiff leather of the one the cemetaur had taken had been thoroughly crushed, streaked with weathered white veins, and the sturdy buckles had been bent and warped past the point of useability. The heel, too, had been snapped nearly in half on the bottom, detached almost entirely from the foot of the boot, causing it to flop and slap unbearably in the mud as he began to make his way back through the sewer to the manhole where he had first come down.

Hanging the hook with the monster head temporarily on his belt, the witcher began to climb his way up the ladder, only to flinch and fall back again as his calf began to burn after only a few rungs. Geralt barked in pain as a jolt of fire coursed through his calf, dropping to the mud and gripping his leg as the sensation of crushing needles began to shoot up through his hip. He could feel his calf pulsing with venom inside his boot, the Swallow seeming to have only slowed the unrecognized effect of the creature’s bite, and he gritted his teeth, grasping onto the ladder in an attempt to drag himself back to his feet. “Damnit,” he swore, hearing his voice echo uselessly in the darkened culvert. Cupping his hands around his mouth then, he turned up towards the wooden covering, hoping the corpse-collector had not wandered off to the tavern in the time it had taken him to fight the monster.

“Rudin!” he called, his voice echoing down the corridor. “It’s me! Let me out!”

“Not ‘til you knock three times, master witcher,” Rudin called back, his voice muffled through the weight of the lid. “That’s what you said. We listen around here. We don’t want no trouble, nor no monster comin’ through, pretendin’ to be you.”

“Do I sound like a monster?” Geralt snapped, his hand clenching around the ladder rung.

Rudin paused at the question, taking a moment to turn it over. “You sound mighty cross, that’s the truth,” he admitted after a bit. “But if you was the witcher, you’d knock three times.”

“I’m injured,” Geralt called back, clenching his teeth as his swollen leg pressed uncomfortably against the leather of his boot. “Leg’s hurt. Can’t get up the ladder. I need some help from you and your boys.”

“That’s what you’d say if you _was _the monster,” one of the boys called back, sounding pleased with himself for the conclusion.

Geralt sighed heavily, wondering for a moment if it would not be worth it to simply blast the lid off with Aard; that would take care of the problem, certainly, but Rudin and his boys were standing directly over it, and catapulting the lid at them with a force like that would undoubtedly injure them, if not kill them. Looking around, he wondered how difficult it would be to simply look for another way out, before realizing that would require more walking, and instead pulling his pack around, looking for something to throw. Taking an apple from his pack, he weighed it in his hand, before winding back and throwing it up against the cover of the manhole. He listened as it hit the wood with a muffled, satisfying _thunk_, its ripe face audibly bruising against the sturdy slats, and he paused at the sound, not even noticing as the apple fell back to the floor, starting to sink down into the mud.

The sound of the apple against the lid had reminded him of something he had almost forgotten about until then, and he found himself suddenly feeling a bit on edge as he remembered the booming noise he had heard while fighting the cemetaur. It had come from inside the sewer maze, and with Rudin still standing outside, guarding the lid, that meant whatever it was was likely still down here, lurking in the dark. The thought of a creature formidable enough to spook even the cemetaur made Geralt’s nerves stand on edge, and he closed a hand over his medallion, remembering how it had gone off right before the telltale noise. Not only was the creature large and loud, it seemed, but it was apparently magically imbued as well, and the witcher turned quickly at the thought, staring down into the darkened corridor, wondering if he had killed the wrong monster.

If there was something still lurking in the unlit corners of Beauclair scarier than whatever he had just slain, he thought, he was not entirely sure he wanted to encounter it, least of all with only one working leg and no potions left to help him.

Limping to his apple, he picked it up again, not bothering to clean it before throwing it to the lid again, letting out a huff as it made contact with the wood a second time before falling back into the mud. The most he could do right now was get paid, get home, and have Shani treat his wounded leg, hopefully with blessed little scolding. Once that was done, and he was healed enough to fight again, he could try to figure out what was really going on down here – but for now he figured he had done a respectable job of the creature he had already slain, and Rudin had to appreciate one less monster lurking in his sewers. Picking the apple up a third time, he lobbed it at the wooden lid again, this time hearing an immediate reaction of muffled chatter before the lid began to scrape and creak, lifting away with young grunts of effort to allow the faintest strains of orange and purple to bleed through.

Geralt squinted up at the painted Beauclair sunset, a faint disc of watery light peering through into the darkness of the sewers, and he leaned on the ladder, looking up as Rudin and his boys began to peer curiously over the side. “We thought you was dead, witcher,” Rudin told him, causing Geralt to frown at the admission. “You was takin’ so long, we thought the ghoulie’d killed you. Glad to see you’re only hurt. Not near as bad. For you, at least.”

“Not being dead is my preference, yeah,” Geralt returned, letting out a weary sigh. “Could use some help getting out, though. Leg’s injured. Can’t climb up too well.” Then, taking the meat hook from his belt, he held it up in the fading light, earning a gasp from one teenaged boy and a gagging noise from the other. “Got a head to bring up as well,” he added, too annoyed to be bothered by their reactions. “Thing’s pretty heavy. Could use someone to bring it up. Put less strain on my leg.”

A bit of hushed conversation followed from the three on the surface, before one of the boys began to hoist himself down, making his way a few runs down the ladder and holding out a hand to take something off the witcher’s hands. Lifting the heavy trophy, Geralt handed it up towards the boy, making sure he had a secure grip on the bloody hook before finally letting go of it, allowing him to bring it the rest of the way up. The teenager gagged as he pulled the head up towards him, coughing a bit as he held his breath against the stench of the slaughtered creature, before he slowly began to move up the ladder again, taking the head laboriously with him. The second teenager jumped quickly out of the way as the first cleared the surface of the drainage hole, dragging himself up onto the street, first to his knees, then back to his feet again, and Geralt huffed as he watched the display, wondering if they made this much of a show when Rudin had them help retrieve human corpses.

Pulling himself up the ladder again, Geralt grunted in effort as his foot hit the first rung, the weight of his body pushing down on the calf sending another shock of pain up his leg and into his hip. “Shit,” he hissed, gripping the ladder, trying his hardest to keep his balance to the other leg. Gripping the next rung, he dragged himself upward, slowly but surely, until he finally reached the surface of the street, holding up a hand to indicate for Rudin and his boys to help him up the rest of the way. The stones of the pavilion were blessedly cool against his back and leg as he laid out across them, allowing himself a moment to breathe, staring up at the waning sky as he expelled the last of the putrid smells of the sewer. He could hear the sound of footsteps behind him as Rudin and his boys gathered curiously around the severed head, peering down into its milky eyes as they whispered to one another, trying to decide what kind of monster it had once belonged to.

“That’s a ghoul, that is,” one of the boys said, assuredly. “I’d know it if I saw it. Look at them ugly sharp teeth.”

“It’s a cemetaur,” Geralt returned, still breathing heavily, causing all three to look up at him in surprise. Pushing himself to his feet again, he groaned, slow to stand, before bending to pick up the monster head, staggering a bit on his injured leg as he made his way over to where Roach still waited. Hooking the trophy securely to her saddle, he patted her flank, earning an irritated bluster in return, before turning to look back towards the corpse-collector, who was watching him intently, curious to what he might do next. “Wouldn’t go down there if I were you,” Geralt told him, indicating towards the sewer-hole, watching as Rudin’s brows shot up in surprise. “Not safe anymore. Just let the drowners handle this one.”

“But… it’s my job,” Rudin returned, sounding shocked.

“Recommend looking for a new job,” Geralt answered, before thinking a moment and adding, “Could use someone to paint some signs.”

Rudin shook his head at the suggestion. “Can’t paint for naught meself,” he said, shrugging, honestly. “But, you did your own job fair and square-like, so it’s only right you get paid. Perhaps you could use some of it to procure yourself a nice bath after all that mucking about, aye?”

“Definitely on my list,” Geralt answered, looking down at his ruined boots and sewage-stained armour. “Never gonna get that smell out of my nose. Don’t know how you do it.”

“Oh, I can’t smell, master witcher,” Rudin told him, grinning at the clever workaround.

“Some men are just born lucky,” Geralt sighed, wiping a globule of mud from his pauldron.

* * *

Geralt frowned as he closed his hand around what remained of his payment for the cemetaur contract, the weight of the purse much lighter against his palm than it had been the evening before. He had spent the first few of his coins on strong drink, for his nerves, and the next few on a hot bath, with the next handful dispensed over the course of the evening to have the hot water consistently refreshed. He had set up his alchemy station to boil as he washed, listening to the concoction bubble as he scrubbed the smell of sewage from his skin and armour, every so often leaving the bath to pour out a fresh vial of Swallow before replacing the ingredients to brew another dose. It had taken a few pours over his leg, and at least two doses down his throat, but by the time he was finally ready to sleep he felt he had expelled the last of the creature’s venom from his wounds, and he could already feel his ribs beginning to knit as he laid down to rest, careful not to weigh too harshly on the still-healing bones as he drifted off to a fitful sleep.

The following morning had seen the dispersal of at least another half of his hard-earned wages, when he had gone to the armourer in town to request a replacement for his mutilated boots. “Monster got them,” he explained, plainly. “Need something stronger. Boots keep getting destroyed.” The armourer had given him a strange look when he had picked up the boots to inspect the damage, but he had not questioned the witcher’s request, instead setting to work to see what he could put together. A few hours later, Geralt was finally ready to head back home, his new boots stiff and squeaking against his stirrups as the weight of the cemetaur’s head bounced and rolled against Roach’s side. Roach nickered at the unwelcome bulk of the trophy, tossing her mane as a globule of congealed black blood trickled down her flank, but Geralt only patted her neck, chuckling fondly at the horse’s finicky distress.

“Don’t get uppity,” he told her, running his hand along her chestnut coat. “You’re a witcher horse. You’re used to this. Give you a bath when we get home.” Roach blustered at her master’s instructions, tossing her mane again to show her disapproval, but she did as she was told, continuing to make her way down the road towards Corvo Bianco. It had been a while since Geralt had ridden with a monster trophy on his saddle; he had given up the practice when he had retired, as there was no need to showcase his resumé when he only worked by special request anymore. Even so, he found the sensation oddly satisfying to revisit, revelling ghoulishly in the feel of the head bumping every so often against the back of his calf as he rode. He would not tell Yennefer of his enjoyment, of course – she would already likely be cross with him for bringing the grisly thing to their estate at all – but he found his small joy at the sensation of witcherdom to be strangely surprising, even to him.

Slowing Roach to a trot, Geralt steered the mare gently through the entryway arch, leading her safely to her stable stall before dismounting with a grunt and detaching the trophy hook from her saddle. Roach blustered as she felt the head being lifted from her flank, and Geralt patted her side, noting the streak of rotting black blood that trailed down her leg to the straw-filled floor. Hooking the head on the outer stable wall, he picked up a bucket from the horse’s stall, taking it to the nearest pump and filling it with water before returning to the stable to wash the gore from Roach’s flank. “Pretty gruesome,” he agreed, sympathising as the horse gave another irritated bluster. “Sorry, girl. Gonna get you cleaned up good as new. Won’t even know the difference.”

Roach flicked her ears at the mention of a bath, blustering as she felt the brush and warm water against her flank, before turning her attention instead to her feeding-trough, allowing the witcher to wash her as she ate. “Just like a woman,” Geralt told her, fondly, patting her side as he continued to scrub the blood from her fur. “Some pampering and good food and you’re satisfied.” Chuckling at the thought, he washed the brush off again in the bucket, making a face as the black blood swirled in the water, before petting Roach’s side again and picking up the bucket, taking it out to dump it into the vineyard turf. He hoped Yennefer would not notice the telltale aroma until it dissipated into the soil, but with the strong smell of the flower garden to cover it up, he was certain he could distract her long enough for it to disappear before she had a chance to realize what he had done.

Fishing a hand into his satchel, he sifted blindly through his gear, before finally pulling out a small, stoppered vial of tiny metallic shrapnel, uncorking the ampoule and tapping out a few into his gloved palm. The slivers let off a strong energy as soon as they touched the air, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle at the feel of them, but he ignored the sensation, instead digging a small hole in the bloody soil and tipping a few pieces into the dirt. He kept these slivers of dimeritium on hand for the making of bombs, mostly, but the occasional outside use kept him vigilant in always keeping a few extra bits handy. Yennefer had never liked the idea of him keeping pure dimeritium on his person, and had never been shy about telling him so, but he found that he always managed to find some use for it that made it worth keeping around.

Covering the hole with dirt again, he patted it down, making sure it was sealed, before standing to his feet again, satisfied that another archespore would not now grow where the blood had lain to rest. Then, turning away from the vineyard grounds, he began to make his way towards the main house, wiping the last dirt from his gloves as he headed for the smell of chimney-smoke. The windows of the house were lit up with firelight as he crested the walk to the front door, and he took in a deep breath, closing his eyes, revelling in the familiar scent of home. Yennefer had enchanted the fireplace to always smell of something magical when it was used, one of the sorceress’ many subtle contributions to the ethereal charm of the vineyard estate, and he felt the welcoming warmth of the front-room and scent of wild spices wash over him as soon as he stepped inside the house, eager to greet his wife on his arrival.

Yennefer was already sitting in the front-room as Geralt walked inside, and she looked up as her husband entered, watching in silence as he began his homecoming ritual of unshouldering his swords on the hook by the door. She had already clearly finished her supper, as her half-cleaned plates still sat before her on the table, and she now sat poised with a glass of White Wolf between her slender fingers, her other hand pressed pensively against the pages of a book she had been reading. “Had I known you would be home soon, I would have waited,” she told him, causing him to look across at her at the comment. It was not particularly cold, per se, but neither was it notably welcoming; it was difficult to tell if he was in trouble for his late hour, or if she was simply making a dry pass at casual conversation.

Trailing her gaze down his scrubbed attire, the sorceress made note of the wear and tear, her eyes coming to rest last of all on his boots, before her sculpted brows began to arch at the unfamiliar work. “New boots,” she noted, taking a sip of wine, before returning her attention to her book again. “You either fought something very small, or a pack of dogs with a taste for shoe leather.”

“Cemetaur,” Geralt answered, before pausing, his brow furrowing. “Hm… zeugl.”

“Well, which was it?” Yennefer asked, not bothering to look up from her book. “A cemetaur, or a zeugl?”

“Both,” Geralt answered. Yennefer huffed.

“Surely not,” she told him, shaking her head. “You couldn’t have fought two monsters, Geralt. It’s only been two days.”

“Didn’t fight two,” Geralt answered, frankly. “Fought one. Half cemetaur, half zeugl. Never seen anything like it before.”

Yennefer paused at the answer this time, taking a moment to ensure she had heard correctly, before finally looking up at her husband again, her expression an odd mixture of confusion and concern. “I’m sorry…” she said, setting down her wine glass. “Did you say it was a hybrid of a cemetaur and a zeugl? The implication being that those two specimens mated, and produced something… viable… which you then fought?”

“Yeah,” Geralt answered.

“And you fought this?” Yennefer asked again.

Geralt hesitated, unsure which part of his statement was not coming through clearly. “Yeah,” he repeated after a moment. “Fought it. Killed it. Cut off its head. Can show you if you want.”

Yennefer paused again, seeming to consider, before finally shaking her head. “No,” she said, looking down to her book again. “I don’t take pleasure in the brutalization of beasts. And I don’t appreciate being lied to.” Turning a page in her text, she paused a moment, reading the first paragraph over a few times, before finally realizing she could not concentrate enough to absorb it and instead looking up at her husband again, stern. “I know biology isn’t your strongest subject, Geralt, apart from a few… basic fundamentals,” she told him. “But it’s just not possible for species to breed in the way you’re suggesting. A cemetaur is a necrophage, a conjunction creature, and a zeugl is…”

She frowned, rolling her lips in thought, trying to recall her readings on the subject, and Geralt blinked, waiting for her to remember what she was trying to say; he knew what kind of monsters zeugls were, and cemetaurs as well, but he also knew that Yennefer often had insights into things he did not, and if she had a viable explanation for the abomination he had encountered, he was more than willing to hear it. “I believe they’re hermaphroditic,” she said at last, letting out a thin, frustrated sigh at her inability to remember. “Aquatic or amphibious, I’m not quite sure… but in no condition to breed with a necrophage, regardless.”

“People said witchers couldn’t reproduce either,” Geralt pointed out.

“And they can’t,” Yennefer returned, curtly, her frown deepening at the example. “I don’t know which creature you’re supposed to be in that instance, but I don’t like either option.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, before shrugging, too tired to argue. “Just tell Ciri about it, then. Sure she’ll be interested.”

At this, Yennefer froze, her gaze penetrating as she stared at her husband, as if trying to decide whether he was being truthful or simply looking to get a reaction. Then, pushing herself up tiredly from her chair, she closed the book she had been reading, smoothing the front of her attire before looking up again, irritated at having been so expertly played. “Alright, Geralt,” she told him, nonplussed. “Let me see this head, then.”

Geralt nodded, before tilting his head towards the door, indicating for his wife to follow him out to the stables. Yennefer was quick to walk ahead of him as they went, keeping her gait a few paces in front, but Geralt found he did not have the strength of mind to worry about her eagerness to disprove him. It was a difficult tale for even him to believe, and he had been the one who had actually fought the beast – even on the ride home he had sometimes found himself double-guessing his most recent encounter, and had more than once checked back to the monster’s head to make sure it was truly still there, with its massive, hagfish jaws and the half-oval hole in the side of its neck where he had pried the metal disc loose. Pressing a hand to his satchel at his side, he felt the shape of the plate through the leather, the weight of the disc pressing softly against his hip as he ran his fingers over its unusual form, and he hummed at the memory, before allowing his hand to return to his side as they at last made their approach to the stable.

The monster’s head still hung where he had left it, its mouth slack, eyes blank and rolling, dripping black gore in a steady tap onto the cobbled walk and down the side of the wooden wall, and Yennefer exclaimed in disgust as she rounded on the site, reaching a hand to nearly touch the gore dripping down her nice edifice, before turning to look back at her husband, frustrated at his lack of consideration. “You’re going to clean that,” she announced, shortly, pointing to the black blood seeping between the stones of the walk.

“Hm,” Geralt answered, taking a quick glance down the grisly site. “Sure we can get someone to clean it.” Then, pointing to the monster’s sagging jaw, he took a few steps forward, indicating for the sorceress to take a closer look. “Look at the mouth,” he said, touching a few of the jagged teeth, careful not to cut his glove on the venomous edge. “Cemetaurs have smaller mouths. Rounder, more specialized. Used for eating marrow. This is a zeugl’s mouth.”

“I’m not sure how you can tell that, really,” Yennefer admitted, reaching out a hand towards the head, only to think twice and retrieve it again before touching any of the rank, dripping gore. “This thing looks like it’s been through a butcher’s grinder, the way its skull is split. Usually you’re a bit more careful.” Leaning down to inspect the head, she tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear, making a face as the smell of sewage and death wafted strongly towards her from the carnage. “It’s not a small mouth, to be sure,” she agreed, nodding a bit as she straightened once more. “But I don’t think that makes it a zeugl, Geralt. A large mouth is unusual, certainly, but it could very well have just been a flaw in its genetics.”

“It had tentacles, Yen,” Geralt argued, starting to get frustrated now. “Actual tentacles. Zeugl tentacles. If I could’ve brought the whole thing to show you, I would’ve. Thought the head would be enough.” Turning to look at the head again, he turned it on the hook, facing the blank eyes outward, causing Yennefer to make another face as the gruesome expression was faced towards her. “Not making this up,” Geralt said, shaking his head. “Still down in the sewer for anyone to see. I know what I fought, Yen. It wasn’t a cemetaur. It was…” He paused, frowning, holding the severed head between his gloved hands as he tried to think of what to say. Then, letting go of the head, he instead reached down into his satchel, digging around until he felt his hand close over the shape of the strange metal plate he had cut from the monster’s neck.

“Here,” he said, holding the disc out towards the sorceress. “Found this after fighting it. Stuck in its neck. No idea what it is or how it got there, but… gotta mean something. Wouldn’t be there otherwise.”

Taking the disc from his hand, Yennefer turned it over, her brow furrowing, before she began to run her fingers over the long gash made in the plate by his sword. “This was in its neck?” she asked, looking up at him again. Then, turning her attention back down to the disc, she frowned, squinting at the blurry text on the side with the gash. “It’s certainly unusual,” she agreed, nodding. “Unfortunately this one is too damaged to make out much of whatever was originally on it.”

“Didn’t realize it was in there when I tried cutting off its head,” Geralt explained, letting his hand rest on his hip as he stared down at the disc. “Only found it after. Nearly lost my sword because of it. Couple other things, too.”

Yennefer looked up quickly at the comment, staring into her husband’s face, before her gaze flicked swiftly down to his crotch, checking that it was still intact. “Nothing too important,” she commented, seeming satisfied that everything was as it should be. Then, returning her attention to the plate, she hummed, her mouth twisting thoughtfully to one side, before she finally shook her head, holding out the disc for him to take it back. “I’ll ask around,” she told him, solemnly, watching as he stashed the disc back into his satchel. “I might know a few people who may have some idea about the significance of something like this.”

“I’ll ask, too,” Geralt answered, running his thumb absentmindedly over the clasp of his satchel. “Not in contact with any witchers anymore, but… maybe Ciri knows something. Can definitely ask her.” He paused, thinking it over, his hand moving to stroke the scruff of his silvery beard. “Might be worthwhile to just head out to see her,” he suggested, looking up at Yennefer again. “All these weird contracts lately… can’t help but think hers might be related. If she knows something, might be good to go now. Get it over with.”

Yennefer frowned at the suggestion, folding her arms. “If her contract was something as strange as all this, don’t you think she would have mentioned something in her letter?” she asked.

Geralt shook his head. “No,” he answered, honestly. “She knows I would’ve gone without her. Can’t give me all the information. Knows I’d leave her in Vizima that way. Try to keep her safe.” Taking a breath in, he thinned his lips, pinching the flap of his satchel in thought, feeling the weight of the disc against his hip as he remembered back to the last time he had adventured with Ciri. “She’s forcing my hand this way,” he added, frowning a bit at the thought. “Withholding information. Making me go through her. Thought her not mentioning any urgency was a good thing, but… starting to think it’s the opposite. Probably thought the less she gave, the quicker I’d respond.”

“So what are you going to do?” Yennefer asked. “Leave now, in the middle of everything?”

“Gonna send her the plate,” Geralt answered, turning to look at his wife again, refusing to be pushed by her irritation. “See if she knows anything. If her contract’s related, I’ll head out. If not, maybe she can give some information about the plate.”

“And if she knows nothing about the plate?” Yennefer asked, not bothering to hide her testy tone.

Geralt shrugged at the question. “Then we’re no worse off than we are now,” he answered, frankly.

“Except that Ciri will know something is amiss here, and may be inspired to come visit you as a result,” Yennefer returned, seeming quick to jump on an opportunity to puncture a hole in his logic. “Thereby putting herself in danger she wouldn’t’ve done otherwise.”

Geralt frowned at the retort, unable to help sensing that something felt more off than usual about the conversation; Yennefer was never shy to challenge him when she felt he needed it, but he saw no reason for her to do so now, when all his suggestions seemed entirely reasonable, as far as he could tell. “Why don’t you want me to see Ciri, Yen?” he asked, tired of belaying the point. “Ever since you found out Shani was pregnant, you’ve been trying every way to distance me from Ciri. Tried to take her letter before I could see it. Didn’t want me visiting her. Convinced me that writing about the clinic was a bad idea. Even now you won’t let me ask for simple advice.” Folding his arms over his chest, he hardened his gaze, staring down at his much shorter but equally indignant wife.

“Why are you trying to keep me from our daughter?” he insisted, growing more frustrated with every point. “You afraid I’ll get her pregnant, too?”

He regretted the words as soon as he said them, realizing too late what he had done, what he had put into the air, but he could only look on helplessly as Yennefer’s expression began to change, first to shock, then confusion, then to a scathing, disappointed incredulity he had seen only a few times from her before. It was the look she had given him when she had learned he had slept with Triss in what had once been their shared bed, a look of disbelief that he would have the gall to stoop to something so low. Perhaps that was where she went wrong, he realized: expecting him not to disappoint. He had disappointed her so many times over the years that it was incredible she still carried any modicum of faith in him at all, but he realized that whatever glimmer of hope there might have been was likely long gone after a hurtful comment like that.

“I’m… sorry, Yen,” he muttered, dropping his head to look shamefully down at his boots. “That was too far. Didn’t mean that.”

Yennefer stared at him for a moment, her expression unmoving, hands fixed on her hips, as if trying to work out what to say in response to something she never thought she would have to hear. “That was disgusting, but I’ll let it go,” she finally answered, her voice quieter than Geralt had anticipated. He had expected her to scold him, to give him what-for, to lay out his blatant hypocrisy in accusing her of suspecting such foul thoughts of him – her, his wife, one of the only people who consistently believed in him, always came back to stand by his side, trusting him to be a better man than the rest of the cynical world thought of him. “I know what people have implied about you and Ciri,” she added after a moment. “But I know you’ve never looked at her that way. I wouldn’t be here if you had.”

“Then what?” Geralt asked, now more desperate than angry. “Why are you trying to keep me away from Ciri?”

“Is that really what you think, Geralt?” Yennefer returned, sharply, looking up at him again with a cutting stare that sent a chill up his spine. “That I’m trying to drive you and Ciri apart?” Letting out a soft scoff, she turned away, tittering angrily to herself, folding her arms as she began to pace, finally allowing her pent-up anxiety to show. Geralt frowned as he watched her, knowing how much Yennefer preferred to keep these kinds of feelings inside, too stubborn to show her worry to the world, even when it was eating away at her like an anxious moth. “I’m worried for her, Geralt,” Yennefer admitted, not bothering to look at him again as she shook her head. “I’ve seen the way you are together. You say one little thing, and she goes off on some grandiose adventure, with no regard for her safety or anything else but wanting to be by your side and do as you do.”

Sitting down on a nearby bench, the sorceress tucked her knees together, letting her hands rest worriedly at her sides, her painted nails digging into the wood of the seat as she stared at the ground where the monster’s blood had pooled into a gory stain. “If you think I’m selfish because I’m trying to keep her from killing herself after we nearly lost her too many times already, then so be it,” she said, her voice firm. “Think what you want of me. I’m hurt, of course, but I can’t stop you from thinking what you will.” Folding her arms again, she stared down at her boots, her pretty lips thinning in a hard, troubled line. “You can go see Ciri, if you truly think it’s what’s best for both of you,” she told him. “But I know you both, Geralt, and I worry. I worry that you’ll say one thing about being a witcher, or hunting a monster, and she’ll throw away everything to follow you into the unknown. I already worry about losing you every time you leave home. I don’t want to have to worry about losing Ciri as well.”

“Yen…” Geralt sighed, crossing to sit beside her on the bench. She stiffened as he sat down, but he did not react; she had every right to be cross with him right now, he knew, but he wished she had a bit more faith in his choices. “Ciri’s empress now,” he told her, speaking softly. “She wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t abandon her people.”

“Wouldn’t she?” Yennefer asked, turning to look at him, pointedly. “She loves you, Geralt. More than anything. And you love her too. I know you do. And I love her just as much, of course I do. But… sometimes distance is the best thing you can give the ones you love.” She frowned, letting out a soft sigh, before turning to look out towards the flower fields of the vineyard garden. “She’s still a child, regardless of what responsibilities she’s been saddled with,” she told him. “Even if you keep trying to convince me and yourself otherwise.”

“Only a few years younger than Shani,” Geralt returned.

Yennefer huffed at the comment, a thin, humourless smirk curving her lips at the thought. “Why do you think I worry so much about Shani?” she asked, tilting her head as she stared out at the flowers. “They’re both so young still, so vulnerable. But Ciri is especially vulnerable, Geralt. She’s still a girl, and she’d follow you into hell if you so much as implied you could use a second sword at your side.”

“Third sword,” Geralt corrected.

Yennefer turned to look at him at this, her eyes sharp. “Don’t get cute,” she told him, shortly. Then, standing to her feet again, she smoothed the front of her velvet and leather jacket, before turning to look back at her husband again, her demeanour her usual, practiced indifference. “Go talk to Shani,” she told him, indicating towards the house, causing Geralt to frown a bit at the sudden shift in mannerism. He wished she would be more open with him, less poised, but she had learned to act this way to survive, and asking her to change overnight just because they were married now was unfair to Yennefer, he knew. It was something, at least, that he got to see her emotions in full from time to time, but he wished she would open up to him more, rather than always shutting down after only a few moments of vulnerability. “You promised you’d see if you could get her to talk about what she needs to prepare for the baby.”

Geralt grunted, pressing his hands to his knees as he returned to his feet as well. “Dunno why that’s my job,” he answered. “Still don’t think I’ll be very good at it.”

“Because it’s your baby, Geralt, and your dick that caused all this,” Yennefer returned, bluntly, surprising him with her stark brutality. “Now go talk to Shani. I’ll put on some tea, and we’ll drink it once you’re done.”

“Don’t like tea,” Geralt answered, frowning.

“And I don’t like monster blood on my nice wood siding,” Yennefer told him, turning to look up at him with cutting eyes. “Seems we’re all suffering today.”

Geralt blinked at the retort, his hand clenching unconsciously at his side, feeling for the familiar weight of his satchel, something to hold onto that was a bit less uncertain. “Are you upset with me?” he asked, not caring to leave the matter to guesswork. Sometimes it was difficult to tell if the sorceress was actually upset, or if she was simply being testier than usual after a rough day or botched spell; she had made no mention of anything going on that might have put her nerves on edge this evening, but he did not think the few things he had mentioned since coming home would warrant this sort of coldness.

Yennefer sighed at the question. “Tea is not punishment, Geralt,” she told him. “It’s just tea. If I were upset with you, you’d know it.”

“Would I?” Geralt asked, his frown deepening.

Yennefer looked up this time, staring at her husband, her expression a mix of emotions, difficult to read. She observed him in silence for a while, as if trying to decide whether or not to indulge his stubbornness, before finally lowering her gaze again, her dark lashes forcibly nonchalant against her pretty cheeks. “I’ve been in communication with a few members of the Lodge,” she said, speaking again at last. “They contacted me first, and at first I considered simply ignoring them… but my curiosity got the better of me. I responded, and they’ve been in correspondence with me ever since. Letting me know what’s been going on.”

“The Lodge?” Geralt asked, surprised to hear it. “Thought they disbanded after the fight with the Hunt.”

“Not disbanded, no,” Yennefer answered, looking up at the observation. “Spread out, would be a better way of putting it. Most of the Lodge lost contact after the fight with the Hunt, but a few have begun reaching out, trying to find one another again.” Pausing then, she seemed to consider something, before turning away from Geralt again, brushing her dark hair over her shoulder as she began to head in the direction of the gardens. “Shall we walk?” she asked, hardly bothering to wait for him to catch up. Geralt blinked, confused by the change, but moved quickly over to catch up with his wife, not wanting to be left behind and curious now what she was making him wait to hear.

Yennefer inhaled deeply as she walked, taking in the fragrance of spring on the breeze, not saying anything for a while as she stared out peacefully over the rows of vineyard flora. Their château gardens were a sight to behold, Geralt knew, but he found he could hardly enjoy their beauty as he waited for Yennefer to speak her mind, worried now that she had learned something from the Lodge she knew he would not be happy to hear. “I received a letter from Triss Merigold,” she finally spoke again, still not looking at her husband. “And before you ask— yes, she did inquire about you. I told her you were well. And married.”

She paused again after saying this, still staring out over the flower beds, before turning to look back at Geralt, as if expecting some reaction to this news. Geralt said nothing at the mention of Triss, only stared back evenly at his wife, and Yennefer huffed softly at the lack of reaction, before returning her attention to the gardens once more, seeming pleased. “From what she writes, she’s taken great strides in her efforts towards mage equality,” she continued after a moment. “Also in helping mages in dangerous areas escape to friendlier territories. She mentioned that she’s contacted other members of the Lodge as well, which is heartening to hear. Hopefully she’s had a bit of success reaching members the others haven’t been able to.”

Taking in another lungful of vineyard air, she began to move down the path again, taking her time to admire the field of flowers as she walked alongside it. “Most of the Lodge’s members went into hiding, not wanting to suffer repercussions for breaking Sabrina out of prison,” she continued, her lips pursing in worry at the thought, her shapely brows furrowing. “Though there have been a few even they can’t account for the absence of. For instance, they tell me they’ve completely lost contact with Kiera.”

At the mention of Kiera, Geralt stiffened, frowning at the news. “Haven’t heard from Lambert either?” he asked, not bothering to hide his worry.

Yennefer gave another soft huff at the question, turning to look up at her husband again. “Lambert and Triss have never exactly gotten along,” she reminded him, seeming surprised he could have forgotten that detail. “We of course considered the possibility that Kiera’s silence was due to Lambert’s influence. That would make sense if it was only Triss having difficulties. But it seems Keira hasn’t been corresponding with any other members of the Lodge, either. That’s where our worries mainly lie.”

“Our?” Geralt asked.

Yennefer nodded. “I’m still a member of the Lodge, Geralt,” she reminded him, matter-of-factly. “Just semi-retired. Much like you and the witchers. We never can quite stay away, can we?”

Geralt’s frown deepened at the answer, and he turned to stare out over the garden, unseeing, unable to help wondering what could have happened to Kiera and her witcher companion. The last time any of them had spoken to Kiera and Lambert, it had been when they had left to travel together after the fight with the Hunt; they had seemed content at the time to leave all semblance of their old lives behind, but if Kiera had given no indication that she was no longer interested in cooperating with the Lodge, then it was entirely possible that something unfortunate could have happened to prevent her from corresponding. If that was the case, then it had to have been something terrible for not even Lambert to be able to prevent it, an idea which unsettled Geralt greatly, though he was not entirely certain why. Witchers fell to monsters all the time, he thought, and Lambert in particular was young and brash, the kind of man who would rather die fighting than walk away from a threat to those he cared about.

“I did hear that Fringilla Vigo is back in Anna Henrietta’s court,” Yennefer added after a moment, forcing Geralt to shake the thought of whatever creature could have put an end to his fellow witcher from his mind. “Not that I’m surprised. I’m sure the fact that she and Anna Henrietta are cousins likely went a long way in her favour.” Taking in a deep breath at the thought, she arched her brows, clearly displeased with the news. “Of course, Ciri’s abolishment of Emhyr’s ultimatum about mages in Nilfgaard’s vassal provinces likely also helped,” she added, seeming less invested in the actual politics than bitter about what they had deposited onto her until-then idyllic doorstep. “It seems we’re all doing our part to help our fellow sorceresses… whether they deserve it or not.”

“She helped us defeat the Hunt,” Geralt reminded her, hoping to push the conversation to a different topic. He knew why Fringilla Vigo presented a sore subject for Yennefer, but he did not have the mental energy to address those spots of contention today. “Helped you escape Montecalvo. Told you how to get around the barrier, to get to Ciri.”

Yennefer huffed at the defence, pausing to lean sullenly against a floral archway in the path. “Yes, well… even ghouls sometimes feast on the enemy, I suppose,” she returned, dourly. “I do worry she may be part of what’s causing the duchy to take so long on our request, however. If the court mage presents an argument for denial based on magical means, there’s really no one to dispute it. She could say whatever she liked to have our clinic shut down. Or worse, put in clerical purgatory forever.” She frowned at the thought, her lips twisting in a look of disgust, before her pretty nose flattened against her face in a spiteful scowl. “I still haven’t forgiven her for blinding me at Sodden Hill, you know,” she added. “That’s a sting that won’t go away anytime soon. Or for seducing you for months while you were here in Toussaint with Dandelion all those years ago.”

Geralt felt a muscle in his jaw give a twitch at the mention of his journey to Toussaint with Dandelion, but he steeled his expression, hoping that refusing to react might convince Yennefer to move on more quickly. Yennefer pursed her lips again, her eyes sharp as knives as she stared down at the garden path, before she finally took in another deep breath, not bothering to look at Geralt this time as she spoke. “I’m still not even sure what you were doing here in that time,” she told him, sounding half-bewildered as she shook her head. “There’s not even that much for a witcher to do here. Apart from Fringilla Vigo, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” Geralt answered, looking down at the jab, realizing this would not be a conversation he could simply will away. Allowing Yennefer time alone with Shani while he was off filling contracts was turning into a terrible idea, he realized, as her exposure to the doctor only seemed to be drawing out all his wife’s memories of all the other poor decisions he had made during their time together. They had been married for barely four months at this point – a fact which surprised him, now that he thought about it – yet in those months the topics of his prior faults had hardly been touched, if ever at all. Geralt, himself had been more than content to leave those events in the past, but it seemed that any conversation with Yennefer anymore eventually devolved into one he hoped he might never be forced to address, and he sighed, unable to help feeling a bit annoyed at her inopportune choice of timing.

“Not sure why you’re bringing this up now,” he told her, gruffly, turning his golden eyes up to her again. “Haven’t done anything wrong recently. Haven’t even talked to Fringilla since the fight with the Hunt, and then only to discuss tactics.” Resting a hand against his hip, he thinned his lips, his scowl deepening. “Just got back from a difficult contract,” he added, more frustrated. “Just wanted to come home, have a nice meal. Talk it over with my wife. Get a little sympathy for a change. Guess it was stupid to hope.”

“Oh, don’t play woe is me,” Yennefer returned, coldly, folding her arms across her chest. She stayed that way for a moment, poised, rigid, violet eyes flashing, before her indignation began to slowly drain away, her righteous energy leaving her slight frame as quickly as she had gained it. As Geralt watched, the sorceress appeared to deflate before his very eyes, dwindling in size from a ruffled predator to a solemn, weary songbird, until her shoulders fell resignedly to her sides, and she sighed, softly, looking down to her boots. “What are we doing, Geralt?” she asked, quietly, the words surprising him as much as her tone. “Why do we keep fighting like this? I’m not upset with you. I love you. You’re my husband. And I’m not upset with Triss either, or Shani, or Ciri. Especially not Ciri. They’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t know why…”

Trailing off, Yennefer fell silent again, pausing another moment before turning to stare out towards the garden, her pristine brow furrowing, her expression a soft, defeated melancholy Geralt had only seen from her a few times in his life. It was not an objectionable expression, only an incredibly human one, but for some reason he found it much more unsettling than anything else he might have expected from the sorceress at a time like this. A solemn quietude fell across the path as Geralt waited for her to say something more, and for an instant he wondered if he should leave, allowing Yennefer some time alone without his presence there to distress her – but she seemed to realize his intention, as a second later she looked up at him again, her expression thoughtful, striking eyes soft and weary as she took another breath, preparing to speak.

“Something feels off,” Yennefer admitted, softly, making Geralt’s brow furrow at the observation. “I don’t know what it is. But something feels wrong. It’s been like this ever since Shani moved in.” She paused at the thought, thinning her lips. “It’s nothing to do with her,” she added, quickly. “It’s something in the air. An energy. A shift of some sort. Have you felt it? Something is changing, and I don’t know what. And I don’t like that I don’t know.”

“Been feeling it, too,” Geralt admitted, relieved that Yennefer had said something about it first. “Thought it was just me. Just having trouble adjusting. But things have been weirder than usual lately.” Reaching up to his wolf’s head medallion, he frowned, wrapping his fingers around the resting, jagged shape. “Medallion keeps going off,” he added, thoughtfully. “Thought it was you, but… went off today, too. Down in the sewer. Some kind of strange magic. Don’t like when I don’t know what I’m up against.”

“Neither do I,” Yennefer agreed, frowning. “Which is why all of this frightens me so much, Geralt. If this monster was really what you say it was…”

“It was,” Geralt answered, solemnly. “Wouldn’t lie to you, Yen. Monster was what I said. Wouldn’t make that up.”

“And what if it was?” Yennefer returned, more distressed. “What am I to think then? Knowing hybrid abominations prowl the streets, and my husband is the one called on to deal with them? You, who’ve never fought this type of beast in your entire life?” Pacing back a few steps, she held out a hand to him, indicative. “You’ve nearly died _twice_ now, Geralt,” she told him. “Simply from going down the road into town. Simple contracts, you said they were – nothing too worrisome – and they both nearly got you killed.”

“Didn’t know what they entailed,” Geralt countered, frankly. “Thought they’d be easy. Necrophages usually are.”

“And why wouldn’t you think that?” Yennefer asked. “You had no reason to know otherwise. No one is looking out for your best interest. Then along comes Ciri with this new mysterious contract, one she won’t even tell you what it is— and you, of course, jump at the opportunity, because it’s Ciri and adventure and the unknown. But what of me, Geralt? Do you expect me to smile, to cheer, knowing I nearly lost you twice already? Having no idea what waits out there in Temeria, or if I’d even learn of your death if you never came back?”

“That’s—” Geralt started to say, but quickly stopped himself, thinking, before dropping his head. “That’s… fair,” he admitted. “Sorry, Yen. Didn’t think about that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Yennefer told him, folding her arms to her chest again. “Because you’re a witcher. You don’t think about these things. But it’s all I think about, left here alone. Something is wrong, Geralt, but you’re too stubborn to see it— too blinded by Ciri, and your need for adventure, and your desire to be _anywhere _but here with me. But I…” She stopped, trailing off again, before turning her violet eyes to stare down at the cobbled walk instead. “You said we would come out here to be happy,” she told him, quietly. “But I didn’t come here for the house, Geralt. Not for the vineyard, or the sunshine… I came here so I could be with you. When you said we could be happy, in spite of what we’d always been told, I believed you. I still believe you. Because my happiness is you.”

Geralt faltered at the admission, having not expected to hear it so plainly, but Yennefer did not waver in her conviction, looking up to stare at him again across the garden walk. “I know you’ll always love Ciri, Geralt,” she told him, her gaze never leaving his. “_I_ love Ciri. I wouldn’t want to live without her in our lives, in some way. And I know how important Shani is to you, and I’m happy to have her here. I am.” Taking another deep breath, she stopped, going quiet for a while as she watched him, intently. “I’ve done everything I can to make you happy,” she told him. “But… my happiness has to count for something, too.”

Geralt said nothing, feeling his heart sink heavy like a stone in his chest at her words. He had no comfort to give her, no pretty words to ease her mind; she was right, and he deserved to hear it, as little as he might want to. Taking a few steps across to his wife, he rested his hands on her slender shoulders, before moving to cup her face lovingly in his palm, running his thumb across her pale cheek. “You’re my wife,” he told her, softly. “Your happiness is the _only_ thing that counts.” Brushing her raven hair back from her face, he tucked a lock of it behind her ear, smiling as she stared up into his face, her violet eyes earnest as they searched his cat-like gaze. “Won’t tell Ciri where the plate came from,” he compromised. “Just say I found it in town. Ask if she has any information about it. That way she doesn’t think I’m in any trouble. Won’t alert her that something is wrong. Just one witcher asking for help from another.”

Resting his palm against her cheek again, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, breathing in the soothing scent of lilac and gooseberries as he leaned back again, looking down once more into her solemn face. “We’ll get through this, Yen,” he told her, gently. “Just like we’ve gotten through everything else.”

Yennefer paused, staring up at her husband, waiting for a moment after he finished speaking; her expression was half weary, half hopeful as she watched him, as if looking for some shift, some sign, something that wavered, anything that might break the illusion of truth she so desperately wanted to believe. Then, reaching up to him, she took hold of his calloused hand, bringing it down to her lips for a soft kiss on the back of his worn knuckles. “I believe you,” she told him, quietly. “I always do.”


	6. Lavender

The smell of lavender was subtle on the air as Geralt opened the doors of the former day-room, looking around at the improvements Shani had made since the last time he had been allowed inside. It had been a few days since his return to Corvo Bianco, and though at first she had been insistent he stay on bedrest, she had since relented enough to allow him the option of wandering the grounds, granting him a small space he was sure she knew he needed to keep from being driven mad by the confines of his bed. He was thankful to her for her vigilant care, though he could not help wondering whether it was truly working; his entire life on the Path had consisted of walking off injuries like these, or dosing himself with enough potions that he could not feel the pain, and he could not help feeling that those injuries had healed much faster than this one seemed to be doing on medical salves and bedrest.

The thought of his injured leg was quickly pushed from his mind as he looked around the clinic, taking in the ambience Shani had created; the couches they had moved into the former day-room were now draped with folds of cloth, keeping them protected for patients’ use, and the books that had been stacked on one of the tables before were now neatly arranged in one of the many bookshelves, the spines freshly polished to make them look new. A desk had been moved into a corner of the room, right under one of the large, scenic windows, allowing Shani plentiful light with which to write her prescriptions. The young medic was already standing near the door as Geralt entered, and she smiled as she saw him admiring her progress, opening her hands to indicate around at the softly-lit room, which was already beginning to resemble a functional clinic.

“How do you like it?” Shani asked, beaming.

Geralt nodded in approval, impressed with her work, before turning to give her a small, encouraging smile. “Looks great,” he told her. “Really coming together.”

“I’m very excited,” Shani admitted, clasping her hands. “The duchy’s approval still hasn’t come through, but I’ve been working to get it ready to open as soon as it does.” Moving over to the windows, she smiled out at the sunlit vineyard, taking in a deep breath of lavender air as she admired the scenic view, and Geralt paused a bit as he watched her, noting how much more at ease she seemed with the promise of work to do. That was Shani, after all – only happy when she had something to occupy her mind – and he found himself smiling fondly at the thought, glad she was finally beginning to settle in.

“I gave Barnabas-Basil a list of medical supplies, and he said he’d send the list into town,” Shani continued, excitedly. “I told them where they could get everything, so hopefully that helps. They say Toussaint’s merchants are good at procuring things anyway, so I’m not too concerned.”

“Sounds great,” Geralt answered. “I’m sure they’ll be able to find everything.” Everything about Shani seemed more relaxed now, he noticed – even her attire had loosened up a bit. Instead of her usual corset and vest, she now wore a soft, loose blouse – one of his – with loose-fitting pants and a house-robe he recognized as the smoking-jacket he had been gifted by Anna Henrietta during one of her visits to the estate. He figured this was all likely Yennefer’s doing, offering Shani anything she felt would help make the doctor feel more at home, and he suppressed a chuckle at the thought of the two of them rummaging through his clothing-chest while he was away in town.

Shani did not even seem to notice his amusement, turning away from the window after a moment, before crossing instead to one of the covered chaises, sitting down and pulling a stack of books from the nearest couchside table onto her lap. “Speaking of finding things,” she told him, eagerly. “I found the book you were telling me about. _Witcher Mutations: An Introduction To Research._ I’ve been reading it, looking for what the researchers from Oxenfurt could have done to reverse your mutations, but…” Shaking her head, she frowned a bit, opening the tome to a bookmarked page, and Geralt quickly crossed the room to join her on the next couch over, settling in to watch as she perused the mysterious text.

“I found the other one you told me about, too,” Shani added, looking up at the witcher now sitting across from her. “_The So-Called Giant Centipedes, Or My Only Comfort In Exile_… interesting in its own right, but not quite as useful as the first book on actual witchers, sadly.” Geralt frowned at the wordy title, having not remembered it being quite so long, but he supposed he had not been paying very close attention to it at the time he had first picked it up; there had been so many other more interesting things in Moreau’s laboratory at the time that he felt he could hardly be blamed for not being wholly attentive to a book about bugs. Closing the book on witchers in her lap, Shani sighed, crossing her wrists over the edge of the tome, before looking up at Geralt again, disappointed.

“He was clearly on the right path with his research,” she told him. “His methods were brutal, inhumane, but… he was collecting the right information. Through these books, I mean. Not through experimentation.” Frowning a bit more, she twisted her lips, her pretty brow furrowing in concentration. “I wish he’d had some sort of journal or record where he kept the information he _did_ learn through his experiments,” she added, nodding her head at the thought. “They were awful, from what little you’ve told me about them, but… maybe he learned something through them that could help.”

“Moreau had a journal,” Geralt returned, his brow furrowing as he remembered the disappointment of looking for the book, only to have it already gone before he could find where it had been put to rest. “Someone took it. Grave robbers. Never caught them, so never got it back, but he kept other records. Megascope crystals.” He paused at this, thinking as he stared down at the book in Shani’s lap, trying to remember where he had stashed the crystals after his trip to Moreau’s lab. He had left most of the lab alone, not wanting to disturb the mausoleum dedicated to a father’s loss, but the megascope crystals and the records they contained had seemed particularly important at the time, important enough to warrant taking them the lab and bringing them home to his estate instead. He figured that if thieves were brazen enough to steal Moreau’s journal from his grave, then the only way to ensure the crystals were not similarly lost would be to hold onto them, himself.

He had not told Yennefer about the crystals when he had brought them home from the laboratory, not wanting her to scold him for bringing such macabre keepsakes into her house – but he had kept them safe nonetheless, stashing them away in the subterranean cellar-laboratory of Corvo Bianco, far from the sticky fingers of scavengers and those who might seek to abuse the information they contained.

“Megascope crystals?” Shani repeated, pressing her lips into a thoughtful pink line. “I don’t suppose you have those, either.”

“I do,” Geralt returned, nodding. “Can’t risk watching them when Yen’s around, though. Don’t think she knows I have them. Don’t think she’d be happy if she did.”

Shani hummed at the news, folding her arms around the books in her lap, sucking her lip as she tried to think of a way around the problem. “Do you think you could distract her for a bit?” she finally asked, causing Geralt to look up at the question. Shani shrugged at his surprise, undeterred, and Geralt could detect a familiar glint in her eyes, the same puckish determination he had seen years back when she had talked her way into gaining access for an entire group of infiltrators into Myhrman’s tower. “When you have time to do it, of course,” she added, her soft lips starting to curl into a grin. “Once you’re better. It wouldn’t have to be long. Only however long the records last. I’d only need to watch them once, then I’d put them right back where I found them.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, unable to help a small smirk of his own at her brazen cheek. “Yeah. Think I can manage that. Already got a few ideas how to do it.” Just then, a new thought occurred to him, and he paused, the smile falling from his face again. “Need to use Yen’s megascope to watch it, though,” he added, gravely. “She doesn’t usually like people touching her stuff. Tried to use it once for a joke. She nearly took my head.”

“What kind of joke can you play with a megascope?” Shani asked, raising a curious brow.

Geralt grunted, folding his arms uncomfortably. “Witcher jokes,” he explained, purposefully vague. “Not very funny.”

“Oh, come on,” Shani laughed, nudging his ankle with the toe of her boot. “It can’t have been as bad as all that. Not like you dressed as sorceresses and prank-called the Lodge.”

“Yen needs to be out of the house if you’re gonna use the megascope,” Geralt answered, quickly changing the subject. “Need some way to lure her out. So fixated on remodelling the house for the baby, it’s gonna be hard.”

Shani’s smile lit up instantly at the comment, and she stared across knowingly at Geralt for a moment, before finally looking down to her books again, tracing a finger thoughtfully along the edge of the text. “You said ‘baby’ that time,” she told him, quietly, causing him to blink at the observation. He had not even noticed his use of the word; it had come so naturally that he had nearly forgotten it as soon as it had crossed his lips. Setting her books aside on the table again, Shani smoothed the front of her baggy pants, before resting her palms on her knees as she looked up at Geralt again, content. “Why not ask her to go into town with you to buy a crib?” she suggested. “Ever since I got here, she’s been asking about a crib. I’m just not that picky, Geralt. If it’s nice, I’ll like it. But it’s clearly important to her to get one she thinks is just right. So why not use that to your advantage?”

“Might work,” Geralt agreed, nodding along, still a bit flustered. “Been after me too about getting you to talk about it. Be helpful if I had a starting point, though. Might help convince her better.”

Sucking her lip again, Shani paused, her hazel eyes narrowing as she thought on how to answer. “Tell her… I want a functional crib,” she said at last. “Nothing too fussy. Easy to use. Maybe a mobile, if she’s really determined, but… the rest is up to her.”

“Hm,” Geralt returned, dryly. “Thought you wanted her distracted for a day. Not until the baby was actually born.”

Shani snorted at the observation, looking down again to her boots. “Alright, Geralt,” she said, chuckling. “A nice wood crib, then. Natural. One that matches the upstairs décor. And… a frog mobile. The rest is up to her.”

“Frogs,” Geralt repeated, smirking at the detail. “Right. Fit for a prince.”

“Or a princess,” Shani returned, softly, looking up to smile across at him.

* * *

Geralt grunted softly as he swung his injured leg out of bed, letting out a hiss and sigh as his still-tender foot came to rest on the chilly hardwood floor. Stealing a glance behind him, he paused a moment, making sure his morning stirring had not disturbed his wife, before running his hand back through his silvery hair and looking down to his pockmarked leg, still pale from the bandages he had only recently been given permission to remove. It had been almost a week since his encounter with the monster in the sewer, but the scars on his leg were still tender to the touch, and he gritted his teeth as he ran his fingers gently over the deepest of them, remembering how he had pulled a full tooth from one right after the battle had been won.

It had taken his leg more time to heal than he had originally anticipated – along with several venom-cancelling alchemical concoctions he had not even thought to brew until Shani and Yennefer had suggested them – but it had eventually stopped swelling and oozing after a while, its colour turning from a sickly grey to a less disconcertingly angry red, and from there back to his natural ashy tan, though with many more new scars than the last time he remembered looking at it.

He was always surprised by the number of scars he had managed to attain over the years every time he looked at his own body. Even Shani had commented on his ability to collect them, something a bit disconcerting to hear coming from someone for whom scars were a natural part of life. Not that scars were not natural for the life of a witcher; he could not think of a single man or woman from the Path who did not have at least a few to their name, but he also admittedly could not think of many who had as many as he did, or gained them with as much abandon as he seemed to, at least in Shani’s eyes.

A sudden soft hand on his back let Geralt know that Yennefer was awake as well, and he turned to look back towards her again, noting the slow, lazy blink of her violet eyes that made it clear she was still half-asleep. “Up so early?” she yawned, running her slender fingers down the marks of his back. Then, moaning tiredly, she pursed her pretty lips, before rolling onto her back in the bed, brushing her fingertips across his spine as she rubbed her eyes with her second hand. “You haven’t been sleeping well since your last fight,” she told him, still groggy, as if struggling to stay awake long enough to make her observation. “Does your leg still hurt that much?”

“Not my leg,” Geralt answered, honestly, taking her hand from his back and pulling it up to his lips to kiss it. “Just restless. Don’t like being cooped up so long.”

Yennefer chuckled softly at his answer, before making a face, pretending to pout. “Poor baby,” she cooed, her voice still heavy with sleep. “Doctor’s put him on bedrest. However will he survive?”

“With difficulty,” Geralt answered, chuckling, turning to crawl back into bed again. Sliding his leg over Yennefer’s form, he leaned down to kiss her pillowy lips, and she smiled into the kiss, reaching up to brush his hair back from his rugged face. Geralt hummed as he kissed his way down her cheekbone and across her throat, before moving to slide his hand down into her panties, causing Yennefer to moan as she rocked against his talented touch. “Still plenty I can do on bedrest,” he teased, breathing warm air across the shell of her ear.

He had been mandated to keep off his injured leg as long as possible before heading out again to do more adventuring – which worked out just fine for Yennefer, as most of that free time was now spent dedicated entirely to her. Adventuring was not high on his list of things to do at the moment, regardless; the payout from the cemetaur contract had been more than enough to suffice their current expenses, with some to set aside to pay towards Shani’s clinic, and Geralt felt he deserved a bit of a break either way after the ordeal he had recently gone through.

“How about some sympathy for an injured witcher?” Geralt asked, burying his face in her raven locks and taking a deep breath in as she wrapped her arms around his sturdy neck. He loved the smell of her hair in the morning – anytime, really, as it never changed – but there was something particularly sweet about waking up to the smell of lilac and gooseberries, of having that scent be the first thing he registered when he opened his eyes; of breathing it in and knowing she was there, and would always be there whenever he awoke, forever more. “It’s been a while,” he pointed out, sliding his fingers inside her again, causing her to give a sharp little gasp as her lashes fluttered against her cheeks. “Not to guilt you, but… I _did_ risk my life.”

“You’re so _tacky_,” Yennefer laughed, leaning in to kiss his lips again. Then, pressing both hands against his chest, she pushed him off, a bit harder than he expected, before rolling him over to his side of the bed, wiping a glittering trail from her stomach as she coaxed herself onto her hands and knees. Geralt watched as she began to crawl towards him on the bed, before leaning his head back against his pillows, feeling the sharp bite of cold air against his skin as she peeled his underwear down to his knees.

The warmth of her mouth around his member made him hiss and salivate as he felt her on him, and he clenched his fists into the bedsheets in anticipation, feeling as she slowly, agonizingly made her way down the length of his shaft. Her tongue was soft as rose petals against his girth, moulding expertly to the shape of his cock, and he breathed in sharply as her lips brushed the base, stirring the coarse white hair with her breath. He could feel his member sliding down her throat, warm and wet, but the only sounds she made were a few soft moans, just enough to let him know she was still there, still enjoying herself, still pleasuring herself with her actions just as much as she was pleasuring him.

Looking down to his wife, Geralt felt his breath catch in his chest at the sight of her violet eyes staring up at him, locking intently with his gaze; there was an electricity to her stare, a tantalizing threat, watching him just as intensely as he watched her, and he bit his lip, huffing tormented breaths as he watched her slowly, meticulously begin to make her way up his pulsating shaft again. He clenched his jaw as he felt the soft scrape of her teeth against his throbbing veins, teasing him, letting him know she was still in charge, that she could bring pain as easily as pleasure. Her tongue dripped warm with saliva as she traced it around his aching tip, and he groaned as he felt the liquid trickle down his cock, before her lips encompassed his tip again, giving him just enough to excite him without giving very much at all.

Just then, Geralt felt a surge of heat from his gut, and a soft huff from Yennefer as the first dribble of precum began to leak out of him, seeping over her lips and down her chin— but she still made no effort to stop, only wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist before leaning down to start again. Brushing the tip of her talented tongue against his skin, she moved her mouth around him again, before going down slowly, agonizingly slow, trailing her free hand along his chiselled, tensing stomach as she went. Geralt shuddered as he felt her thumb brush across his navel, sending a shiver up his spine at the sensation, and he hissed at her touch, whimpering, grunting, throwing his head back into the pillows again, trying in vain to keep everything inside despite his body begging him to let it all go.

This was such a rare occasion that he hated to let it end so soon, but Yennefer was an expert, and she knew what she was doing. Geralt huffed as he felt her tongue against him again, wet and warm, her painted nails scraping against his skin, and he took in a deep breath as he felt a vein in his neck begin to pulsate with agony and pleasure. Her lips brushed the base of his shaft again, and she let out a soft moan, sliding her hands across his thighs, trailing her slender fingers over the bones of his hips as he bucked a bit in her mouth, sensitive to her touch. Then, before he could stop himself, he felt a searing sensation from the pit of his gut, and a moment later, he felt it all go, shuddering in ecstasy as all the tension was drained from his form, before settling back against the sweaty sheets with a deep howl and groan of pleasure.

Yennefer breathed in sharply from under him as he released, her hands tensing for a split second against his abdomen, but her reaction was short-lived, and a moment later, he felt her warm mouth begin to slide slowly off his cock again. Geralt panted as he stared up at the ceiling of their bedroom, his member still wet, lilting at half-mast as the cool air hit it, his golden eyes half-closed as he felt his wife climb back up to lay beside him in the sheets. Yennefer grinned like a cat at the sight of him, sliding her hand victoriously over his sticky chest, and he turned to face her, panting, wet-lipped, before reaching over to brush a stray curl of raven hair from her cheek. Leaning in, Geralt kissed his wife’s lips, feeling the sorceress’ smirk widen as he kissed her, and she traced her hand playfully across his collar-bone as he turned on his side to face her.

“Don’t kiss me,” Yennefer scolded, quietly, not bothering to turn her head until after he had already finished. “I taste disgusting.”

“Taste fine to me,” Geralt answered, grinning, pulling her in to kiss her again. Nuzzling his forehead against hers, he breathed in a deep lungful of her floral scent, before kissing her again on her pretty cheek, making her flinch and chuckle as she pushed him away, tickled by the scruff of his beard. Letting out an amused grunt, Geralt relented, turning away from Yennefer again, before finally starting to get out of bed, pushing his underwear the rest of the way down his legs and kicking them off across the floor. Now fully nude, he began to make his way towards the wash-basin sitting in the corner of the room, picking up a glass vial beside the basin, uncorking it, and tilting a drop from it into the water, watching as the drop spread through the small wood basin, purifying the water for a new day’s use.

“I had an idea,” Geralt said, thoughtfully, picking up a towel hanging from the side of the basin and starting to wash his front with it.

Yennefer looked up at the start of the new conversation, pausing a moment in brushing her hair. “I’m afraid to hear it,” she answered, teasingly, glancing over at his reflection in her vanity mirror. “You always have terrible ideas when you don’t get enough sleep.”

Geralt snorted at the comment. “Last one wasn’t so bad,” he pointed out, turning to look back at his wife’s reflection. “Got to meet you.”

Yennefer hummed at the observation, tilting her head, before slowly starting to return to her pensive preening. “That’s true, I suppose,” she answered, dreamily. “For better or for worse. So what was this idea you had?”

Picking up the towel from again, Geralt quickly dried himself off with it, before tossing it back in its place on the edge of the basin and instead moving to the trunk at the foot of the bed. “Yen,” he said, speaking slowly, thinking it over. “Do you remember that spell you did… years back…”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Yennefer returned.

“Let me finish,” Geralt answered, shortly, pulling a fresh pair of underwear from the trunk. “The spell you did, where you summoned a bird?”

Yennefer paused in her brushing, staring intently at her husband’s reflection. “My crow?” she asked, curiously. “I don’t think that was years ago. Maybe months. It hasn’t been that long.”

Geralt shook his head. “No,” he answered. “Not the crow. The other one. The kestrel.”

Yennefer blinked at the distinction, seeming surprised, but quickly regained her regal composure, starting to brush her hair again as she stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror. There was much worth staring at, Geralt noted; she was still in her undergarments, but that was hardly worth lamenting, as they only served to accentuate the shapely form he knew so intimately underneath. She had moles on her back, left there intentionally; small beauty-marks across her otherwise perfect skin, little subtle details she had taken into account, ones that drove him wild every time he saw them. He wanted to kiss her slender shoulders as she sat there preening, touch the rosy blush of her elbows and knees, but he only pulled a shirt and a pair of trousers from the clothing-chest, closing it with a bit too loud a click and sitting on the bed to dress for the day.

“I’m amazed you remember that spell at all,” Yennefer told him, doing her best to sound nonchalant on the matter. “You’ve forgotten so much from that time in our lives. I’m surprised_ that’s_ the detail that stuck with you.”

“Always remember that time,” Geralt answered, pulling his shirt on over his head. “First time I thought about proposing to you.”

At this, Yennefer huffed, setting down her brush. “Only so another man couldn’t do it,” she countered, flipping her dark hair over her shoulders. “Don’t flatter your sense of chivalry so.” Standing from the vanity then, she began to make her way over to her own fresh clothes, laid out neatly the night before, in stark contrast to her husband’s. “It wouldn’t have mattered,” she added after a moment, starting to pull her pants on first. “I would’ve said no then, anyway.”

Geralt grunted at the comment, shrugging a bit. “Tried to say no this time, too,” he pointed out. “Miracle I convinced you otherwise.”

“Not a miracle,” Yennefer returned, shaking her head as she began to pull on her blouse. “You’re just very persuasive when you’re several inches deep in me.”

“Still,” Geralt answered. “I’d been thinking about it for a while. Proposing. Just never got the nerve until recently. Never had the opportunity.”

“Probably for the best,” Yennefer returned, letting out a soft sigh. “Regardless, what’s your interest in the kestrel spell?”

“Can you do it?” Geralt asked, looking up from pulling on his trousers.

Yennefer thinned her lips at the question, starting to pull on her slender boots. “The question isn’t if I _can_, Geralt, but if I _will_,” she told him, frankly. “And I won’t if you don’t tell me why you want me to do it.”

“Wanted to write a letter to Ciri,” Geralt explained, starting to pull on his boots as well. “Figured a bird could get it there faster than a man on horseback.”

“Well, certainly a bird could do it faster,” Yennefer answered. “What kind of letter were you intending to send?”

Geralt grunted again, finished pulling on his boots, before turning to look back at Yennefer across the bed. “Been putting off writing to her about the plate,” he told her, honestly. “But… think I should tell her. Might be important.”

Yennefer frowned at the answer, discouraged by the news. “You know I don’t like the idea of you telling her about that plate—”

“I know,” Geralt answered. “Which was why I put it off. But I really think she should know. Just in case.”

Yennefer took in a deep, slow breath at this, staring at a spot on the floor and holding it, the action somehow managing to stretch a few seconds of thought into what felt like an eternity. Geralt thinned his lips as he waited for an answer, hardly daring to breathe, himself, until finally Yennefer exhaled again, letting out her breath in a soft, weary sigh. “Fine,” she said, hardly above a murmur, before holding up a hand, and gesturing with a wave of her slender fingers. As Geralt watched, a glowing mass began to take form on her opposite wrist, shifting and pulsing from a shapeless entity of light into something darker, more organic and streamlined, until, after a few more seconds of magic, the light at last began to fade, revealing in its place the familiar shape of the jet-black kestrel he remembered from years earlier.

Bringing the bird in closer to her chest, Yennefer petted its sleek head, watching as it stared around the room with bright yellow eyes, acquainting itself with its new surroundings. Then, looking up at Geralt again, Yennefer frowned, her hand still resting on the kestrel’s inky back. “I want you to know I don’t like this,” she told him. “Not one bit.”

“Noted,” Geralt answered, before inclining his head towards the bird now sitting tranquilly on her wrist. “How long will it take to get there with the letter?”

Yennefer paused to think about it. “Two days as the crow flies, give or take,” she finally said, giving a small smirk at her own clever turn of phrase. “It’s a magical creature, so it won’t need to rest the way a real bird might.”

Geralt hummed at the answer, watching the enchanted bird as it preened its glossy feathers. “Will it be able to carry the plate?” he asked. “Looks pretty small. Didn’t remember it being so petite.”

“It’s a kestrel, Geralt,” Yennefer returned, pursing her lips as she looked down at the bird again. “What size did you expect it to be? It’s neither abnormally small nor large for its species.” Reaching out with her finger again, she petted the bird once more across its sleek head, this time smiling a bit as it leaned in to accept the gesture of affection. “I can enchant the letter and the plate to be weightless while the bird is in flight,” she said after a moment, watching as the kestrel looked up at her, its yellow eye flashing as it cocked its head. “We can tie them both to its leg to ensure it doesn’t lose them. That way it won’t matter what size it is.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, still not entirely convinced. “Will Ciri be able to use it to send a letter back?”

Yennefer nodded, undeterred. “The kestrel will keep its form until I dictate otherwise,” she said, letting her hand fall back to her side. The kestrel protested at the withdrawal of her touch, its angled head jerking as it stared accusatorily down at her hand, before it settled back down again, starting to preen its wings once more. “It’s a good spell.”

“How long can they last?” Geralt asked, frowning down at the lively bird.

Yennefer paused, staring down at the bird as well, before looking up at Geralt again and tilting her head. “I’m not sure,” she answered, honestly. “How long did yours last?”

Geralt shrugged. “No idea,” he admitted, pushing himself to his feet at last. “Released it after I got your letter. Didn’t see a reason to keep track of it.”

Yennefer hummed, seeming dissatisfied, before looking down at the bird again instead, watching as it continued to preen, oblivious to their conversation. “Then I’ve no idea,” she answered, seeming only half-interested in the resolution. “If I don’t recall them, I suppose they can last forever. They’re technically alive until they’re not, though I don’t believe I’ve ever tested the limits of that fact.”

“Crow didn’t last that long,” Geralt pointed out.

“No,” Yennefer agreed, shaking her head with another, lighter sigh. “The crow is a specialized weapon. I’ve told you that. It uses much more magical focus and energy.” Reaching a hand to the star at her throat, she fingered it thoughtfully, staring down at the bird still perched on her wrist. “The crow is an extension of my consciousness,” she added, seeming more fixated on the kestrel than the topic at hand. “The kestrel is just a magical bird who follows my commands.”

Geralt nodded, not entirely following, but too eager to get to work on his letter to Ciri to allow his inability to understand his wife’s magic get in the way of his starting. He was lucky his bedrest had put her in such a good mood, he realized; otherwise she would likely have never agreed to help him out with his plan. As it was, he was surprised she had agreed to help him at all, but he was never one to double-guess a positive outcome. Moving around the bed, he leaned down to Yennefer, pushing the kestrel gently out of the way as he kissed his wife’s cheek, and then her lips, earning a weary smile in response. He could feel the bird’s disconcertingly solid, organic-feeling feathers between his fingers as he touched it, and he had to resist an unconscious shiver at the unnerving sensation; Yennefer’s spells had always been impressive, of course, but it never ceased to surprise him just how much she could do with her use of magic.

Turning away from the two of them, he moved again across the master bedroom, this time pulling out his solid desk-chair as he reached it and dropping himself down into it with a short grunt. Yennefer had insisted her writing-station be set up in the library, giving her plenty of room and ambience, but Geralt preferred the intimacy and familiarity of the master bedroom for his place of work. Pulling a piece of parchment from the desk, Geralt dipped his quill in the inkwell, before starting to pen out a letter to his daughter in the most legible print he could manage.

> _Dear Ciri,_
> 
> _I got your letter. I’m sorry I haven’t come to Vizima yet, but matters at home have kept me busy. There’s not much to explain but I hope to come soon. I hope Emhyr is not causing you too much of a headache in the meantime. I’m sure you’re doing a much better job ruling Nilfgaard than he ever did. You’re free to tell him I said so._
> 
> _In your letter you mentioned interesting mysteries. I have one here I think might intrigue you. I found this metal plate in town but I can’t figure out what it is or what it says. Yennefer hasn’t been able to figure it out either, and we have no information in our library to give us a place to start. I hoped maybe you could find something about it that we couldn’t, or alternatively recommend someone we could contact to ask._
> 
> _Yennefer misses you terribly and so do I. Shani is also living with us now, though we don’t know for how long. There is a lot going on now, but not too much to keep me from coming to see you once I wrap up a few last things. Write back to let me know you are still well and that you will be in Vizima when I arrive. I am too old to go chasing after you again._
> 
> _Yours, Geralt_

Satisfied with the content of his note, Geralt picked up the parchment, blowing on the ink to dry it, before handing it over to Yennefer to take and inspect. The kestrel adjusted its little clawed feet on the sorceress’ wrist as she took the offered paper, and she pursed her lips as she read over the note, hardly bothering to pay attention as Geralt next moved to retrieve the metal plate from his bedside table where he had been keeping it. It was still nearly black with rust and filth, despite his best efforts to clean it, and he frowned as he ran his calloused thumb over the indent caused by his blade across its curious face. Then, sitting down on the bed again, he handed the disc over to Yennefer as well, watching in interest as she touched first the parchment, and then the plate with a glowing blue finger, causing each to give off a faint light for a split second before dimming again to their original iterations.

“That should make them weightless,” Yennefer announced, starting to fold the letter into a neat rectangle. “I’ll add an additional spell to ensure they can’t be removed by anyone but Ciri. That should hopefully keep them from falling off before they reach their destination.” Wrapping the letter securely around the kestrel’s leg, she began to tie it and the plate on securely with a length of knotted string, causing the bird to keen and ruffle its wings as it watched her with wary yellow eyes. Finished with her tying, the sorceress touched the parcel again with a glowing finger, before bringing the kestrel up to her lips and whispering something too quiet for Geralt to hear, gently kissing the bird’s sleek head and smiling as it cooed in response.

“That should keep it safe from harm,” Yennefer said, nodding her approval to her own safeguarding methods. Then, looking up at Geralt again, she frowned, before letting out another soft sigh. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Geralt,” she told him, standing from the bed at last. The kestrel bobbed on her wrist as she moved, but made no indication of distress, its little head jerking as it watched its surroundings begin to move as Yennefer started to cross for the door. “If I know Ciri, this will only make her worry,” she added, pausing as she reached for the door handle. “You can’t fool her. You know that. She’s too much like you to fall for your methods.”

“Not trying to fool her,” Geralt answered, shaking his head and standing from the bed again as well. “Just the opposite. Think she should know what’s going on. Feel like we’re doing her a disservice by trying to protect her from what’s going on in the world.”

Yennefer took a deep breath at the answer, staring at her husband for a long while, her fingers tensing around the door handle as she considered him, seeming deep in thought. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she let out her breath in a long exhale, before nodding, her expression softening a bit for the first time since he had brought up writing the letter to Ciri. “You’re going to make a good father, you know,” she told him, surprising him with the sentiment. Then, before he could think to answer, she was out the door, closing it behind her with a soft click.

* * *

“C’mon, Barnabas,” Geralt urged, gesturing for the majordomo to come in closer. “Hit me.”

Barnabas-Basil frowned at the invitation, his thin mouth twisting in a crumpled line of distress. “I’m not so sure about this, master witcher,” he admitted, lifting the tip of his wooden blade a few inches from the ground, only to let it drop quickly back to the cobblestones again. “I’m afraid someone might get injured.”

“I’ll be fine, Barnabas,” Geralt insisted, indicating again for the man to lift his sword. “Don’t worry about me.”

Barnabas-Basil sighed at the response. “It’s not you I’m concerned about, sir,” he admitted, before finally lifting the wooden sword, holding it out nervously towards the witcher.

Geralt grunted at the man’s honesty, holding up an arm in preparation for his first strike. It had been nearly two weeks since his injury, and though his leg still ached a bit under pressure, Shani had finally approved him for what she had tentatively called ‘light adventuring’. He found the term incredibly amusing, as he had no idea what ‘light adventuring’ entailed, but he figured the good doctor could not fault him some amicable sparring while he waited for his diagnosis to improve. “Need to practice my defence,” he explained, skirting back a few inches as Barnabas-Basil swung his blade, clearly not trying very hard to make contact. “Dodging, blocking. Figure if I can reduce the number of times I get hit, I’ll reduce the damage I take.”

Ducking another swing, Geralt slapped the blade out of the way with the back of his forearm, causing the majordomo to stumble a bit as his centre of gravity was thrown off-balance. “Can’t count on armour anymore,” Geralt added, shaking his head as he straightened again. “Not with the kinds of creatures that have been cropping up lately. The best offense is a good defence.”

“Very prudent, sir,” Barnabas-Basil agreed, before taking another swing at the witcher, cleaving a whistling wooden arc through the air, now clearly trying to put some force behind his swordsmanship. Geralt ducked and rolled out of the way, before quickly jumping up again, bouncing on his heels, but his attention was pulled swiftly from the duel as he looked up, noticing a small, dark shape approaching the vineyard through the sky. Squinting into the peaceful blue, he lifted a hand, shading his eyes, only to flinch as he felt the dull bite of the wooden sword against his distracted arm. “My apologies, master witcher,” Barnabas-Basil sputtered, taking a step back and dropping the point of the blade to the ground again. “I didn’t realize you were wanting to stop.”

“My fault,” Geralt admitted, rubbing his arm. “Take five, Barnabas. Need to check on something.” Turning away from the majordomo, he watched as the dark shape drew closer to the house, until it finally began to take solid form, flapping to alight atop a nearby grindstone. The black kestrel keened as it spotted the witcher, ruffling its feathers and tilting its head, but it made no move to avoid his touch as he approached, only lifting its leg to reveal the hefty package it carried. Geralt frowned at the size of the letter, quickly untying the string holding it onto the kestrel’s leg, before allowing the bird to take flight again, retreating to a nearby tree as he unfolded the parchment to read.

The paper the letter was written on was just like the first he had received from Ciri – framed in gold leaf and emblazoned with imagery of Nilfgaard’s golden sun – but more unusual than the letter itself was the shiny disc that tumbled out when he opened it, causing him to flounder as he tried to catch it, surprised by its sudden weight.

> _Dearest Geralt,_
> 
> _I admit I was surprised to hear back from you so quickly. The Geralt I know would usually wait for Dandelion to come around and write his letters for him. I suppose Yennefer has had more of an influence on you than I might have guessed – that, or she simply forced you to do it, though I prefer to think you chose to write of your own accord. Please do not bother to correct me if I am wrong._
> 
> _The plate you sent is indeed interesting, though sadly I have no idea what it is, nor what it signifies. We did manage to polish it up a bit to read the writing as best we could, but all we found was a string of numbers for which we have no context to decipher their meaning. Perhaps if Yennefer is still in contact with the Lodge, you could ask one of them for assistance in identifying what the numbers mean? I’ve been informed by my contacts in Toussaint that Fringilla Vigo has returned to her post in Anna Henrietta’s court; I would suggest starting by asking for her opinion on the matter._
> 
> _I have returned the plate to you so you may see the numbering for yourself, but, barring assistance from the Lodge, I believe we would do best to puzzle this matter out face to face, so as to allow us to more effectively piece together whether this object has any significance to the matter I originally wrote you about._
> 
> _Please give my love to Yennefer, and tell Shani I hope she is doing well. I admit curiosity in her reason for moving in with you, but I believe that is a topic we can discuss more effectively when you come to visit. I am willing to wait for you to finish your tasks before I expect your arrival, but I cannot promise I will wait around forever. I very much wish to discuss this new development with you, and if you will not come to me, then I will have no choice but to come to you._
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _Empress Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon_

Geralt read through Ciri’s letter a second time, and then a third, his brow furrowing in discouragement as his eyes trailed over the text. He knew that Yennefer would not be happy with this news, though he had not expected her to be; she had been averse to him telling Ciri about the plate in the first place, and to find out that it had only hastened the girl’s determination to see him would mean he would have to suffer through his wife’s duly-earned ‘I told you so’s’ on the matter. Folding up the letter again, he shoved it into a pocket of his trousers, before letting out a sigh, wondering if he could figure out where Yennefer would be that day. As much as he hated to admit she was right, she had as much of a right to know Ciri’s intentions as he did, and so, stuffing the polished plate in his other pocket, he started for the house, making a mental list of the places the sorceress was most likely to be at this time of day.

The library was empty when he stopped in to check, as was the clinic, which seemed unusual. Ever since it had started to take on a more recognizable façade as a medical facility, Shani had taken to spending her free time reading in there – comforted by the familiar atmosphere, he assumed, and warmed by the light from the day-room windows as it sprawled across the floor like a peacock’s plume. Now, the clinic sat empty and bright, with only a few books left open on the chaises to indicate anyone had been in there at all, only to have stopped halfway through their studies to attend to something else.

Taking his leave from the clinic, Geralt tried next in the trophy-room, a small room off to one side of the hall leading between the front-room and the library – but again he found no other soul about, and no indication that anyone had been in there for at least the last few days. He hummed at the mystery, trying to think of anywhere else he could look for Yennefer at this hour; it was possible she had taken to walking the vineyard grounds to clear her head, though it had been a while since she had taken some time to slow down and smell the flora growing on their own property. Perhaps that was exactly why she needed it, he thought – things had been more tense than usual between them, and though he knew there was reason for it, he could still not help feeling that there was a certain thinness to the air of late, a certain unnatural electricity that put his and his wife’s nerves on edge in ways neither of them had the words to express.

Yennefer was seated on a bench in the garden when Geralt did finally manage to find her, and he paused, observing her, waiting for some objection, before dropping himself down next to her with a low, tired sigh, stretching out his long legs in front of him across the walk and draping an arm across the back of the bench behind her. Drawing in a deep breath, he stared out over the garden, crossing his ankles as he took in the view, but Yennefer did not react to his presence, only blinking slowly as she watched the sun play over the leaves and flowers of their vineyard home. “Got a letter back from Ciri,” Geralt spoke after a while, breaking the silence in the only way he knew how. Yennefer did not respond, only continued to stare out over the garden, and Geralt shifted a bit closer on the bench, refusing to be discouraged. “Sent back the plate, too,” he added, tilting his head. “Must’ve figured out your weightlessness spell. Smart kid.”

“She is,” Yennefer agreed, nodding in return. “Takes after me in that regard.”

Geralt gave a soft huff at the joke, before looking down, conceding defeat, reaching into his pocket for the note and handing it to Yennefer to read. He watched as she opened it, before returning his gaze to his lap again, folding his hands as he stared down at the garden walk between their feet. “Sends her love to you and Shani,” he said, glancing up at Yennefer once before looking down again. “Says we should talk to Fringilla about the plate.”

Yennefer frowned faintly at the news, her shift in expression so subtle it took Geralt a moment to realize anything had changed. Then, taking in a deep breath, she straightened in her seat, pressing her hands rigidly against her lap. “Ciri means well,” she said, still not making eye contact as she spoke. “But we’ll not be speaking to Fringilla about this, or anything else.”

“Maybe she can help,” Geralt suggested, frowning in return. “We could at least give her a chance.”

Yennefer shook her head at the suggestion, before turning to look over at her husband at last, her expression less chilly than he had expected, though much wearier, which surprised and concerned him. “What goes on in our house is none of her business, Geralt,” she told him, shortly. “And until Anna Henrietta approves our clinic, I’m not interested in interacting with the court of Beauclair, or anyone in it. Fringilla included.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered. “Not sure that’ll make them approve it faster.”

Yennefer huffed softly, turning her irritated gaze out to the garden once more. “I can’t imagine asking for _more_ favours from the court would garner us much good will in that regard, either,” she returned, frankly. “Especially when they_ still_ haven’t decided how to rule on our first request.”

“Fair point,” Geralt answered, tilting his head, before falling silent, taking a moment to observe his wife in the quietude of midday. He could sense her anxiety as she sat beside him, the tenseness of her form, breathing in the aura of worry and frustration that emanated from her like perfume from a flower, noting the subtle tic of her painted fingers that belayed her tired nerves. His golden eyes sharpened in the garden sun, and he narrowed them, blinking a few times in thought, wondering whether it would help or hurt if he tried to kiss her now, while she was wound so tightly. She had never expressed an objection to his affection, and even now she seemed unbothered by his presence, but he decided it was not the right time to try sympathising with the promise of sex.

“Talked to Shani,” he said after a moment, causing Yennefer to pause, having not expected the change of subject.

“And?” the sorceress asked, turning her head halfway towards him again.

Geralt hummed at her sudden interest, crossing his ankle over his opposite knee and returning his arm to the bench behind her. “Told me what kind of crib she wanted.”

Yennefer huffed again at this, a small smile starting to work its way across her face at the news. “You see?” she said, leaning back at last to rest her head against his arm. “I knew she’d talk to you. Now we can go get the crib from Beauclair. One less thing to worry about before the baby’s arrival.”

Geralt frowned at the suggestion of Beauclair, remembering his conversation with Shani from a few days earlier. Under most circumstances, Beauclair would be ideal, being close enough to reach within a few hours’ horseback ride, but this particular trip was less about convenience and speed than it was meant to give Shani the opportunity to watch Moreau’s megascope crystals. It had taken Geralt less than a few hours total to watch them all when he had first come across them, but he had no idea how well Shani knew how to operate megascope technology, and he grunted, leaning in to kiss his wife’s head as he thought of a way to creatively object. “Getting pretty sick of Beauclair,” he said, tucking a stray curl behind Yennefer’s ear. “Hoped we might go someplace else for a change. Someplace that hasn’t tried to kill me recently.”

Yennefer snorted softly at the comment, tracing a slender finger along the scruff on his neck. “Not too many places like that left,” she answered. “Besides, I don’t want to travel too far. I’m not comfortable leaving Shani on her own too long with so many things still to do.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, kissing his wife’s forehead again. “Shani’s an adult, Yen. Probably be relieved to have some time to herself.” Then, breathing in deeply, he turned to look out towards the garden again, leaning his head against his wife’s soft hair as he drew his arm more tightly around her slender shoulders. Yennefer smiled at the gesture, kissing his cheek, before nestling her head in the curve of his neck, resting her hand against his knee as she closed her eyes, her long lashes brushing gently against his skin. Times like these came too rarely, Geralt thought; moments when they could just sit in silence, enjoying one another’s company as husband and wife, with nothing weighing too heavily on their minds. The world had grown too busy around them – too dark, too full of things vying for their time and wellbeing – things they had come out here to Corvo Bianco to escape from, but which seemed loathe to let either of them go so soon.

“Beauclair’s fine,” Geralt said after a moment, realizing it was not worth arguing about. Shani was intelligent, smarter than him for sure, and if even he could figure out the megascope, he saw no reason why she would not be able to do the same. “Probably more choices there anyway. Pick out the crib, pay someone to bring it back for us. Know someone there who could use a new job.” He could feel Yennefer’s expression shift against the side of his neck, confused, but she said nothing, only listening, allowing him to continue unquestioned. “We could get planks and paint while we’re in town, too,” Geralt added, twisting a lock of her dark hair around his finger as he thought. “Maybe paint some signs. Spruce up the day-room.”

Yennefer frowned at the mention of paint, turning her head to look up at her husband. “You’re certainly being very amenable about this shopping expedition,” she told him, suspiciously.

Geralt shrugged. “Shani needs a crib,” he answered.

Yennefer scoffed, her suspicions unquelled, giving Geralt a doubtful once-over, and he blinked in response, slow and lazy, hoping his patented lack of expression might help mask his intentions from her scrutinizing gaze. “So noble, the witcher,” she finally said, sarcastically, still clearly in good humour despite her reservations. “And I’m sure it has _nothing at all_ to do with the fact that you’re still thinking about those lovers in the catacombs.”

Geralt faltered at the thought, blinking a few times, working hard to keep his expression set as he turned it over in his mind. In truth, he had all but forgotten about the lovers he had cleared from the catacombs of Temple Cemetery, but Yennefer’s comment was enough to remind him that he had more to work with than he had originally thought. “Hm,” he answered after a bit. “Might have something to do with it.”

Yennefer smirked, pleased with her detective work, before nestling her head into Geralt’s shoulder once more, starting to trace her finger along the outline of his chest, just visible through the generous material of his shirt. “Fine,” she said. “I tell you what. If we spend all day shopping – picking out a crib, paint, decorations, commissioning signage, all those things you hate – I’ll give a bit more consideration to the idea of the catacombs. Does that sound reasonable to you?” Her hand perused curiously across the ridges of his wolf medallion, gliding over the bare V of his unlaced neckline, before she slid it next inside the material of his shirt, tracing her fingertips over his scars. “After dark, of course,” she added, turning her head to breathe hot air against his neck, causing his skin to prickle with the promise of things to come. “When no one is around to disturb us except the ghosts.”

“Cleared out the ghosts,” Geralt answered, swallowing, feeling as her hand teased across his nipple. “Should probably still wear my armour to town, though. Just in case something happens.” At this, Yennefer suddenly stopped, her hand going still inside his shirt, before she pulled it out again, sitting up from his shoulder to look across at him, confused. Geralt frowned at her reaction, half-wishing he had said nothing, but knowing it was better to get it out now than right before it was time to leave. “Lots of weird monsters around anymore,” he explained. “Better safe than sorry.”

“And were you expecting to encounter these monsters between the dye market and the carpentry shop?” Yennefer asked.

Geralt shrugged, ignoring her sarcasm. “Never know,” he answered. “Didn’t expect to encounter a giant toad in Oxenfurt, either.”

Yennefer huffed, smoothing the front of her blouse. “Is that going to become your new zeugl story?” she asked.

Geralt shook his head. “No,” he said. “Probably the hybrid thing will, though. Little more interesting than a regular zeugl.”

At the mention of the hybrid, Yennefer looked up, all trace of good humour having now drained from her expression, and Geralt felt his heart sink, realizing he would probably be going to bed that evening with a cold goodnight and a gap between them once again. “I wouldn’t go spreading that story around if I were you,” she told him, stonily. “People already think you’re strange enough as it is. You don’t need to go dispersing tales nobody will believe.” Then, pausing, she looked down again, before adding, “You aren’t Dandelion, after all.”

Geralt snorted at the comment. “No,” he agreed. “Thank fuck for that. One of him is more than enough.” A short silence fell over the conversation at the mention of Dandelion, and Geralt frowned at the thought, thinning his lips as he took another deep breath in. “Do miss him,” he said at last, starting to again play absentmindedly with Yennefer’s hair. “Haven’t heard from him in a while. Hope he’s doing okay.”

“I believe he was in Novigrad, last I heard,” Yennefer answered, allowing the tension to ease a bit from her form. “We could always invite him to visit, if you want. Though you would have to be home to do that.”

Geralt looked up at the pointed comment, his golden eyes meeting momentarily with his wife’s, before looking back down again, staring intently at a stone in the path instead. He wanted to see Dandelion terribly, as it had been too long since he had last laid eyes on his friend, but he had put off going to see Ciri for so long now that he worried she might think he was avoiding her. Her letter had done little to quell this concern, as she had mentioned becoming impatient for his arrival, and he let out a sharp huff, pulling out the polished disc she had returned to him from his pocket and staring down at it, pensively. The surface was dented, dappled with age, but the work she had done in clearing the rust and organic matter was impressive, making the writing across its face almost legible. Geralt frowned at the string of numbers, running his thumb along the neatly-carved line, so clean and uniform it seemed almost impossible to think it had been scratched into the plate with a human hand.

If magic had been used in the making of the plate, that would make slightly more sense as to where he had found it, he thought – but the looming mystery of what it was actually doing there, and how it had gotten there, still gnawed at the back of his mind like a parasite. “You don’t think it’s weird, Yen?” he asked at last, looking up at the sorceress again, ignoring her irritated expression. “First a mutated super-species, then a hybrid… call me crazy, but I’m starting to think someone planted these things here for me to fight.”

“Who has the capability to do that?” Yennefer asked, frowning at the unlikely conclusion. “They would have to have advanced sciences and knowledge of containment for the beasts. There’s no facility in the Continent with those skills.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, thoughtful. “You sure?”

Yennefer paused, blinking a few times at the question, having not expected to have her knowledge tested. “None that I know of,” she answered at last. “Why, Geralt? Are you aware of someone with the ability to do these things?”

Geralt hesitated, thinking about it, running his thumb along the deep cut in the plate. “I don’t… know,” he finally answered, shaking his head. “But… something doesn’t feel right about this. I_ know_ I’ve seen this kind of thing before, but… just can’t figure out where.” Picking up the plate again, he turned it over, running his fingers along the smooth, blank back, before flipping it around again to squint at the numbers, hoping to find something he had missed before hidden between the lines. Then, realizing he was getting nowhere, he let out a long sigh, pocketing the disc again, before leaning back against the bench, moving his arm around Yennefer’s shoulders as he stared out across the vineyard. “Don’t think I can put off going to see Ciri anymore,” he told her, solemnly. “Can’t help feeling her contract might have something to do with all of this.”

Yennefer frowned, taken aback. “She said herself that she didn’t know of any connection,” she argued.

“Right,” Geralt agreed. “Said she didn’t know. Didn’t say there wasn’t one. Said she wanted to find out.” Pausing a moment, he took a deep breath, watching as a butterfly flitted noiselessly along the flowerbed, its gossamer wings reflecting rays of sunlight in glimmering orange and gold. “Without consulting Fringilla, we don’t have many other options left,” he added. “You know some of my memories are still missing. Ones from before we were brought back. Lots of things happened then that didn’t involve Ciri. Just a hunch, but… feel like I was meant to find this thing.”

“Like someone is setting you up, you mean,” Yennefer observed, dryly. Then, letting out a deep, frustrated sigh, she leaned back against Geralt’s shoulder again, too worn down by the conversation to bother being upset at him anymore. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to convince you not to leave,” she told him.

Geralt shook his head, lacing his fingers distractedly through her hair. “Not really,” he answered, solemnly. Then, looking down at her again, he paused, watching her for a moment longer, before leaning down to kiss her temple, brushing her dark hair gently behind her ear. “But I can always wait until after we go to town,” he added, leaning in to speak directly in her ear, kissing her cheek and watching her struggle not to wrinkle her nose at the tickle of his beard. “We can get Shani’s crib, bring it home, assemble it. Then I’ll head out. Ciri can wait another day.”

Leaning in to his wife again, he kissed her ear, and then her cheek, before reaching over to gently turn her chin up so he could kiss her lips. Yennefer smiled into the kiss, letting out a soft sigh against his lips, before she opened her eyes, her dark lashes fluttering sadly as she looked up at him with an adoring gaze. Geralt smiled down at her, knowing how lucky he was to have this view – to wake to this vision every day, to have this be the last thing he saw before he went to sleep – but the moment was short-lived as his smile turned suddenly impish, working hard to hold back a chuckle.

“Besides,” he added, his wry grin widening, knowing the moment was about to be ruined. “Destiny can’t fault me a quick stop in the catacombs, after all.”


	7. Lobelia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is keeping safe and healthy! Please consider leaving a kudos or comment if you're enjoying the fic (comments are especially appreciated!) ♡

When Geralt had initially begun expanding on Corvo Bianco, he had seen no reason to build a stable for more than one horse; Roach was all he would ever need, as far as he was concerned, and should something happen to her, she would be replaced with another Roach. But Yennefer had insisted they needed a handful of horses, and had argued that it only made sense they should get an expanded stable to match. It was only practical, she had told her husband, to provide enough mounts that everyone in the house might be able to flee concurrently, should the need arise for such things. Witcher work was dangerous, after all, and the enemies he made unpredictable – but despite her reasoning, Geralt could not help feeling her insistence came from somewhere else entirely, and that she might simply have wanted something that depended on her to care for and pamper without question.

Yennefer had chosen a black gelding from the stables for their ride into the city that day, and Geralt had to admit they made a striking pair as they pranced over the cobblestones of Beauclair’s street. The two of them had parted ways at the common trough not long after, leaving their horses tied securely in the square, with Yennefer heading first to the bookstore to browse while Geralt visited the butcher to restock on meat. He had never been much of a cook, himself – his roadside stews could make even the strongest stomach turn – but he knew good meat, and so when Marlene had approached them with a shopping list, Yennefer had quickly assigned him to that task. It was something he could do by himself, after all, and something he did not mind doing, as it gave both him and Yennefer some peaceful time alone before the inevitable slog of trying to drag the witcher’s opinions on paint shades out of him.

Geralt folded his hands on the ordering counter, watching the butcher hard at work at his station, wondering faintly when the last time was that the man had washed his hands. The witcher had no fear of contamination, himself – his mutated immune system filtered out most impurities before they even had a chance to take root – but he made a mental note to ask Marlene to wash and thoroughly cook the meat in case any residue lingered that might disagree with less hearty stomachs. Just then, a thought occurred to him, and he turned, listening for the sound of soft hissing from somewhere in the shop, or the telltale sign of a pair of slitted eyes staring out at him from behind a barrel. He had never noticed a cat on his previous visits to the butcher’s shop, but he supposed he had little reason to keep track of such things, as cats in general tended to avoid witchers like they carried the plague.

“Cat must be hiding,” Geralt commented, looking back towards the butcher again.

The butcher looked up in surprise at the remark. “Cat?” he asked, shortly. “What cat is that?”

Geralt frowned at the question. “Thought you had a cat,” he answered, shrugging.

The butcher shook his head, starting to saw through a stubborn vein of fat. “No cats ‘round here,” he said, wiping his brow. “Wouldn’t be good for business.” Geralt’s frown deepened at the unexpected answer, and he turned, taking another quick look around the shop. Apart from the chop of the butcher’s cleaver, he realized, the shop was completely devoid of sound, and he could not see any residue of fur collected in the corners or around the bases of the barrels sitting on the floor. In addition, the shop smelled only of blood, salt, and meat, with none of the distinct scent of feline on the air to indicate a cat might be hiding in there, or had ever hidden there at all.

Bringing the cleaver down with another hard chop, the butcher suddenly paused, before looking up at Geralt again. “Why?” he asked. “You in the market for a cat, master witcher? The book-seller might be able to help you out. Pretty sure his cat just had herself a litter.”

Geralt grunted at the offer, lowering his gaze to stare intently at the meat. “No,” he said, feeling suddenly a bit foolish. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to waste your time.”

“Not a waste of _my_ time, sir,” the butcher answered, cutting another hunk of meat from the bone. Picking up a fold of cloth, he scooped the chunks of meat onto it, wrapping them up and tying them securely before handing them over the counter to Geralt. “On the house,” he said, nodding to the witcher. “Heard what you did for Rudin and his boys. Nasty thing, whatever that was. Glad it’s out of the sewers.”

“Yeah, me too,” Geralt agreed, taking the package. “Thanks.”

The bundled cloth was cool against Geralt’s palm as he exited the butcher’s shop, still feeling a bit out of sorts, and he rested it absentmindedly against his hip as he searched the crowd for some sign of Yennefer. He had not spent very long in the butcher’s at all, so he hardly expected to see her raven waves standing out from the crowd just yet, but the act of looking for her still kept his mind from wandering too closely back to the strange conversation he had just walked away from. His attempts to distract himself were short-lived, as his wandering gaze soon came to rest on the town signboard, and he wavered in place, certain he was making a mistake by even considering going over to look.

Yennefer would be furious if she caught him browsing for contracts during their shopping-trip, but his wife was not around right now, and he could not see any harm in simply looking to see what was there. The state of the board was not wholly apparent until he was actually close enough to inspect it, and Geralt frowned at the bird’s nest of paperwork, pushing up a few leaves to see what was buried underneath. It had always been hard to find work on the Path – in most villages, there were usually six or seven contracts, with most of them being requests for aid in tilling fields or retrieving ingredients. Actual monster contracts were few and far-between, and good pay even more difficult to find, but it seemed that, without a witcher around, contracts had a way of piling up, with coin to match as desperation grew for them to be answered in a timely manner.

To Geralt’s surprise, a few of the jobs posted on this board seemed actually legitimate, and his brows began to raise as he realized that a few even offered what he would consider respectable pay – but his attention was quickly torn from the board at the sound of a throat being cleared behind him, and he turned on his heel, immediately straightening and tucking his hand guiltily behind his back.

“Only looking,” he explained, quickly, earning a curious look from his wife.

“Hm,” Yennefer answered, mimicking his usual response. Then, tilting her head towards the bundle in his hand, she adjusted the armful of books she held, shifting them to one side to balance them more comfortably against her shapely hip. “I see you got the meat,” she noted, holding out her now-free hand. “Give it here. I’ll cast a chill charm on it so it doesn’t spoil.”

“See you got books,” Geralt returned, nodding towards the volumes in her arms as he handed over the meat. “Any good ones?”

“A few,” Yennefer answered, noncommittal, pulling in the bundle and starting to concentrate on it. As Geralt watched, the meat began to frost over delicately in her palm, until she finally nodded, satisfied, handing it back over to him to stash away. She seemed lost in thought as she watched him put it away, but as soon as he finished, she quickly began to move again, shifting her books around to the front and starting to hand them over for him to take. “I don’t know if these are the most recent iterations,” she admitted, allowing him a moment to observe the tomes. “The bookman wasn’t particularly helpful in that regard. But if they’re not, they’ll at least _look_ good in the clinic until we do get the most recent publications.”

Picking up another book, an olive-green tome with a gold impression of a fern along its spine, she turned it over, observing the binding, before stacking it atop the rest in Geralt’s waiting arms. As soon as the olive tome touched his arm, Geralt felt the familiar buzz of his medallion against his chest, and he frowned at the reaction, taken aback, wondering what about the book could have set the wolf’s head off. It could have been something else, he figured – perhaps another of the books Yennefer held, or something going on nearby in the city that had triggered a burst of magical energy – but he made a mental note to check out the book on plants as soon as he arrived home, regardless. Yennefer would not have to know the details of why he was doing it, he told himself; she could just be happy with the thought that he was finally responding to her scolding and brushing up on his botany and alchemical studies.

“It always helps to_ look_ like we’ve got the latest literature,” Yennefer determined, not even seeming to realize anything was amiss. “Even if the texts are nearly useless in practice. They’ll at least fill out the shelves a bit. Make us _look_ like we know what we’re doing.” Stashing the next book in her husband’s arms as well, she paused as she noticed the next book down, before her countenance began to lift a bit, and she smiled, picking it up to show him the cover. Compared to the other books she had shown him, this one seemed almost painfully plain; it was bound in black, with no noticeable embellishments, and no name on the cover to indicate an author. The only thing that seemed to indicate it as a book at all was a title etched into the spine in thin lettering, but even that had been worn down to nearly nothing by years of scholastic handling.

“I picked up a few of these as well,” Yennefer explained, setting the book down again and flipping to a page somewhere near the middle. “Further Developments on Theses of Symbiotic Evolution of Species By Necessity. Fascinating.” Geralt’s frown deepened at the wordy title, reminded suddenly of the book on centipedes, before his thoughts jumped over instead to Shani, wondering how she was faring with the megascope in their absence. He shook his head as he realized his mistake, trying quickly to clear it before Yennefer could pick up on it, before looking up again and setting his expression, hoping his wife had not taken notice of his momentary lapse.

“I haven’t seen studies on this topic in ages,” Yennefer continued, seeming not to realize anything was happening with her husband. “I thought I’d read everything published on the subject. I don’t know how I could have missed these.”

“No idea,” Geralt answered, finding it hard to concentrate on what she was saying. Then, remembering something, he paused, before asking, “Did… you see a cat in the bookstore?”

Yennefer hesitated, still staring at her book, as if unsure she had heard him correctly. Then, looking up again, she narrowed her eyes, clearly frustrated with his lack of reaction to what she had thought to be a fascinating find. “No, Geralt,” she answered, slowly, as if speaking to a difficult customer. “I wasn’t looking for cats. I was looking for books. There’s an observation to be made about your singular vein of interest, but I won’t stoop to comment on it.” Geralt faltered at the stinging pun, blinking a few times in surprise, but Yennefer only pursed her lips, her expression hardening as she closed her book again. “Why do you care about a cat anyway?” she asked, raising an irritated brow. “I can seek one out, if you really want. Though I question why you would, considering your mutual distaste.”

“No,” Geralt answered, quickly. “It’s nothing. Forget it.” Pulling his pack around again, he shoved the meat to the bottom of the bag, layering an empty burlap sack over it before stashing the books on top for safekeeping. He had no idea if magic frost affected books the same way natural frost did, but he did not want to risk ruining Yennefer’s purchases, regardless. “Just something the butcher said,” he added, securing the pack, before slinging it onto his back again, feeling as it bumped heavily against his swords. “Don’t worry about it. Books look great.”

“Yes, they do,” Yennefer agreed, still sounding unconvinced. “But looking great is only half my concern. We should still try to find a few things that are functional as well, or this will all be a wasted trip.”

“Not wasted if it still ends in the catacombs,” Geralt pointed out, a small, wry smile starting to move across his face.

Yennefer sighed, turning her violet gaze up again. “Yes,” she answered, dryly. “Well. That remains to be seen, at this point.”

Geralt’s smile faltered, and he shifted his thumb uncomfortably under the strap of his pack. “Want me to take those, too?” he asked, more humbly, inclining his head towards the books still in Yennefer’s arms.

Yennefer’s expression lifted at the offer, and she quickly pulled the books in a bit tighter to her side. “These are for me,” she said, a bit too sharply. “You know I’ve always been interested in biology.”

Geralt frowned at the unusual reaction, wondering if he had accidentally pinched a nerve; he was aware of Yennefer’s ongoing interest in finding a solution for her sterility, but these books were about evolution, she had said, which was not the same thing, as far as he knew. Shani had mentioned that certain creatures had developed evolutionary workarounds for their own reproductive shortcomings, so if that was the subject dealt with in these books, then it would explain Yennefer’s interest in acquiring them – but not, he realized, why she would be so hesitant about sharing them with her husband, when it was a topic he already knew. If anything, the tomes themselves were likely valuable in some way, he figured; that would explain why she seemed so pleased to find them, and so hesitant to hand them over to his much less delicate grasp.

“Hm,” Geralt answered, working to keep his voice impassive. “Guess I forgot.”

Yennefer pursed her lips at his answer, as if expecting something different, but she offered no comment in return, only tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear before turning to look towards the carts behind her. “I’m going to look for paint,” she announced, still seeming a bit distracted. “You go find that friend of yours. We’ll be needing his services to bring everything back to the house.”

Geralt’s frown deepened, realizing he had no idea where Rudin would be at this time of day, but he nodded regardless, not wanting to disagree with Yennefer over something so small. As he watched his wife walk away towards the stalls, he thought back to everything Rudin had told him; he had mentioned that his profession took him all over Beauclair, including down to the waterfront – which made sense, Geralt thought – but which still made it difficult to pinpoint where to begin looking for the man in a city so large. He supposed he could ask around for news of fresh bodies, to see where Rudin might have been heading that day, but he could only imagine how suspicious that would look coming from an already threatening-looking witcher.

If experience was to be counted on, Geralt figured, he could look for Rudin at the Clever Clogs later in the day, and he let out a huff as he turned back towards the notice-board, debating checking for things to do until it was time to collect his associate. He did not have time to look, however, before a sudden soft tug on his hand made him jump nearly out of his boots, and he yanked it back, looking down at the disturbance, before settling down again with a weary, put-upon sigh.

“Oh,” he said, his frown deepening at the familiar emerald coat. “You again.”

Rosie nodded at the comment, not bothering to answer. Then, pulling a piece of paper from her pocket, she shoved it up towards the witcher’s face, standing on her toes to better reach him. “You forgot this on the board,” she told him. “I saw you looking at it, so I got it down for you.”

“Wasn’t looking at it,” Geralt answered, curtly, pushing the paper back down again. “Left it on purpose. Didn’t come here to work.”

Rosie frowned at the rejection, settling down on her heels again. “Then why did you come?” she asked, sounding a bit annoyed.

“Shopping with my wife,” Geralt answered, jerking his head back towards Yennefer behind him. “Witchers do normal things sometimes. Believe it or not, we’re people, too.”

“You don’t _look_ like a person,” Rosie returned, making a face, and Geralt had to suppress a snort at what he knew had not been intended as the insult it had inevitably come out as. Rosie did not even seem to notice his reaction, instead tilting her head to lean around his side, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman he had indicated as his wife. Her lips thinned for a moment as she spotted Yennefer, as if considering something only she could see, before she finally leaned back again, looking up at Geralt once more. “The sorceress is your wife?” she asked.

“Yep,” Geralt answered, wondering about the strange wording but deciding not to pursue it.

“How long have you been married?” Rosie pressed, rocking a bit on her toes.

Geralt thought back, doing some quick calculations. “About four months,” he finally said.

At this, Rosie stopped rocking. “Four months?” she insisted. “Then who is the other woman living in your house?”

“Marlene? She’s our cook,” Geralt returned, nodding. “She lives with us. So does Barnabas-Basil, our majordomo.”

“No,” Rosie answered, shaking her head. “Not Marlene. The _other_ woman living in your house.”

At this, Geralt faltered, feeling a sudden twinge of apprehension. Of the two times Rosie had visited Corvo Bianco, he could not remember her ever seeing Shani, or hearing a conversation that might insinuate another woman could be living in the house. There had been gaps in his observation, of course, during the times he had been changing into his armour, but he still did not remember Shani ever mentioning that the girl had come to see her, or that she had gone downstairs to see the little guest, herself. “How do you know there’s another woman in my house?” Geralt asked, not bothering to mask his suspicious tone.

Rosie twisted her mouth at the question, wrinkling her button nose. “I _have_ been in your house before, master witcher,” she answered, as if this were unbearably obvious. “And I _do_ have ears.”

Geralt frowned at the answer, but found he could not argue it – the first time Rosie had come to the house was when Shani was still attempting to settle in, and he could recall several times during those days when he, himself had quite plainly heard her moving her things around upstairs. Even so, it seemed strange to him that she should mention Shani at all, and, looking up past her, he scanned the crowded street, searching for any suspicious-looking adult who might be listening in on their conversation. “Where is your uncle?” Geralt asked, half-irritated, wondering what kind of man would let a small girl wander alone through a busy marketplace.

Rosie shrugged, folding the contract she still held between her little fingers as she thought. “He won’t be here for a while yet,” she said. Then, holding the parchment towards the witcher’s face again, she stood on her toes, bouncing a bit, causing her shoe-buckles to jingle with the motion as she waved the paper for him to take. “You should take this,” she told him, insistently. “It’s good pay. At least, I_ think_ it is. I don’t know much about money, except my uncle says it can buy happiness in hourly intervals.”

Geralt grunted at the comment, unimpressed, before finally sighing and taking the paper from her little hand. She was unlikely to let up until he indulged her, he realized, and there was no harm in at least reading through the contract. He had been considering looking for work until the evening anyway, and if the pay for this job was truly worthwhile, then perhaps the job might be worth looking into, regardless of who brought it to him. “Last few contracts you gave me were a lot more dangerous than they sounded,” he said, looking up at Rosie again over the contract. “My wife thinks you’re picking hard ones on purpose. Intentionally setting me up.”

Rosie frowned at the observation, swaying slightly as she took hold of the hem of her coat. “I thought those jobs sounded easy,” she answered, pulling her coattails distractedly up and down like a little bird. “Witchers fight corpse-eaters all the time. How was I to know you were so out of practice?”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, not convinced. “Doesn’t explain the last one you brought me. Monster had something in its neck. Never would’ve found it if you hadn’t told me to look. How’d you know there’d be something there?”

Rosie looked up at him at this, her cute frown never lifting, her expression half confused, half incredulous at his reaching questions. “Something _where_, master witcher?” she finally asked, sounding a bit mortified. “I only asked if you collected trophies. Do you think_ I_ put something in your monster’s neck?”

Geralt frowned at the answer, still not completely swayed, but unable to think of a reasonable response. She had a point, he had to admit – looking back, nothing she had asked him seemed entirely strange. Witchers had a reputation for fighting necrophages, after all, and taking monster heads as trophies was a standard part of their work. He guessed he had allowed Yennefer’s paranoia to colour his thinking on the matter, and he suddenly felt a bit foolish for even asking, realizing how ridiculous it all sounded – him, a professional monster hunter, asking a six-year-old girl if she was setting him up to die. Realizing he would not be getting anywhere with his questions, Geralt instead turned his attention to the contract, going through the text twice before looking up again, confused.

“Mutilated corpse,” he repeated, reading off the page. “Want someone to investigate. Not really my thing.”

“I thought you said you took all contracts brought to you by little girls,” Rosie returned, crossing her arms.

Geralt shook his head. “Policy’s changed,” he told her, handing the contract back again. He watched as she took it back, folding it into a little square, before shoving it in her pocket again, looking as disappointed as he had ever seen a child look. She seemed hesitant to leave, he noticed, hardly bothering to look over her shoulder to see if her uncle had returned to collect her yet; he had no idea what her story truly was, but the more he saw of her, the more he could not help wondering why she seemed so often alone. She was too well-dressed to be a street urchin, he noted, but he had never known a child so young to be so thoroughly unsupervised.

Letting out a soft sigh, he paused, thinking, before crouching down to meet her level, resting his elbows against his knees as he looked up into her unusual green-blue eyes. Rosie blinked at the sudden act of confidence, taking a step back and sucking nervously on her lip, but she made no act to run, clearly trusting him enough to hear him out. “If your family is mistreating you, you can tell me,” Geralt told her, causing the girl’s brows to raise in surprise at the offer. “Dunno why your dad isn’t doing more. If you want me to talk to him—”

“He’s just sad,” Rosie answered, honestly, squirming a bit as she spoke. She seemed uncomfortable with the topic, Geralt noticed, which only raised more questions. “My father’s a good person. He’s just distracted a lot.”

“That’s no excuse,” Geralt frowned, insistently. “He’s got a kid. That’s more important.” Rosie’s face twitched at this, her expression twisting, difficult to read, but she quickly swallowed it back, trying hard not to let anything on to the observant witcher. The topic of her father seemed to strike a nerve, Geralt realized, though he could not figure out why – but he decided to drop it, not wanting to scare her off before he could discover what was now something he was intent on unravelling. “If you’re in trouble, you can talk to me,” he told her, nodding in confirmation, deciding that now would not be an opportune time to reach out and touch her little wrist. It would look strange enough for a grown man to be touching a child that was not his in public, let alone a witcher. “Don’t have to keep bringing me these contracts. You can just tell me if something’s wrong.”

Rosie hesitated at the offer, staring down at him, intently, as if considering saying something more. Then, looking up again, she faltered, seeming to notice something, before her little eyes widened, and, before he could stop her, she quickly turned, disappearing once more into the marketplace crowd. Geralt frowned at the strange reaction, unsure what had just happened, before standing and glancing over his shoulder to see what had made her flee the way she had; there was nothing unusual there as far as he could tell, apart from the sight of Yennefer making her way to him across the square. She looked just as puzzled as he did about the girl’s sudden departure, and he turned quickly to face her, holding out a hand for the paintbrushes he saw she now held at her side.

“Who was that?” Yennefer asked, tilting her head a bit to try to catch a glimpse of the girl. “Were you speaking to a child? Whose child was that?”

“No idea,” Geralt answered, shrugging. “Same kid as before. Brought me another contract.”

Yennefer’s expression darkened at his answer, and she thinned her lips, looking up at her husband again. “I hope you didn’t accept it,” she told him, coldly. “You promised you’d help me shop today.”

“Turned her down,” Geralt confirmed, nodding. “Contract seemed a little weird, anyway.”

Yennefer hummed at this, her expression not lifting, and Geralt could not help wondering if he had said something to upset her. He ran his statement over in his mind, trying to figure out where he had slipped up, where he had stepped out of line, but he could find no hidden insult in his words, no hint of defiance to his wife’s wishes. “I don’t like that girl,” Yennefer finally spoke again, breaking her frigid silence, causing Geralt’s brows to shoot up in surprise at her words. Of everything he had expected to hear as the reason for her sour disposition, that was nowhere near the top. “I don’t like that she keeps coming around the manor,” Yennefer added, making a face. “She asks such strange questions whenever she stops by. _Invasive_ questions. She makes my skin crawl.”

“Just a kid, Yen,” Geralt answered, frowning, unable to help a bit of worry at her vehement distaste for the girl. He had been guilty of finding her presence somewhat irritating, himself, but Yennefer’s vitriol seemed to stretch beyond that into something he could not quite comprehend. “Kids ask weird things.”

“I’m aware,” Yennefer returned, coldly, looking up at him again with a cutting gaze. “And if they were just _odd_ questions, I’d be more understanding. But they’re not, Geralt. They’re…” She paused, her lips hardening into a thin line. “The first time she was at the house, she asked if I could have children,” she said, doing her best to cover the hurt in her voice with an audible layer of ice. “What kind of question is that for a little girl to ask?”

“And what did you say?” Geralt asked, concerned.

Yennefer huffed, propping her free hand on her hip. “I told her it was impolite,” she returned, curtly. “That some women are sensitive about those subjects. Particularly sorceresses.”

Geralt frowned, discouraged at the news, before reaching up to adjust his book-laden satchel on his shoulder again. Despite his wife’s conviction, he found it difficult to support the idea that Rosie’s intentions were at all malicious; he had had similar suspicions, of course – moments where he wondered if the girl was more knowledgeable about the world than she let on – but the thought that she both knew Yennefer could not have children, and had brought it up to hurt the sorceress intentionally, was a bit too far-fetched a chain of events for even him to consider.

“Just ignore her, Yen,” he said, tiredly, ignoring the scathing look from his wife at the suggestion. “Probably didn’t mean anything by it. Like you said, she’s just a little girl.” Looking up again, he made an effort to avoid eye contact with Yennefer’s acerbic gaze; it was not that her worries did not trouble him – they did, of course, and they always would, no matter how many times they had gone over them – but he had heard the sort of questions Rosie asked first-hand, and had seen no reason to be so bothered by them. Some of them were strange, certainly, but there was generally a reasonable explanation behind them, and it seemed bizarre that Yennefer would take such a vehement dislike to the girl when her questions were often only asked out of innocent curiosity.

“Asked me the same thing,” he added after a moment. “Wanted to know why there were so few witchers left. Asked why I didn’t just fuck a bunch of younger women and make more.”

Yennefer looked up again at this, her steely expression faltering, replaced momentarily with something half-shocked, half-concerned. “She asked why you weren’t fucking a bunch of younger women?” she finally asked, seeming more confused than offended by the implication.

Geralt grunted at the question, trying to decide how to answer. “Not in those words,” he finally said, frowning again at the thought. “Uncle told her witchers were dying out, so she thought the solution was just to make more. Don’t think she understands the… limitations, of people like us.” Having said this, he paused, his lips thinning to a razor’s edge, before he finally let out a soft, censorious snort at the thought. “You should hear some of the things she says he tells her,” he added, grimly. “Girl’s uncle is either an idiot or a sociopath. She says he works in Beauclair sometimes, but… never seen him. Always seems to be somewhere else.”

Yennefer frowned at this, seeming to momentarily forget her affront towards the little girl. “Are you sure the uncle even exists?” she asked, folding her arms in thought.

“Pretty sure,” Geralt answered, nodding. “Seems like a weird story for a six-year-old to come up with.”

“Assuming she really is a six-year-old, and not something else,” Yennefer scoffed. “A godling or a doppler seem more likely, the way she continues to cause mischief.”

Geralt frowned at the observation, propping his hands against his hips. “Don’t think she’s a doppler,” he mused, thoughtfully. “Being around her doesn’t set my medallion off. Touching her doesn’t do it, either. A doppler or a godling wouldn’t be able to hide their magic.”

“I was being facetious, Geralt,” Yennefer returned, dryly. “Though I suppose that means she isn’t a Source, either.” Geralt looked up in interest at the comment, and Yennefer faltered, having clearly not expected a need to explain herself. “Most of them can’t control emitting magical energy,” she clarified. “Some can, but it takes training. Lots of training.”

“I remember,” Geralt agreed, nodding in understanding. “Don’t think she’s one of those, either.” Letting out a huff, he stared at the ground, crossing his arms as he considered the topic. “You helped Ciri train her Source powers,” he mused, now interested.

“I did,” Yennefer answered, looking up and angling her elegant head. “Which is why I know how much training goes into even _starting_ to be able to control them. Even after years of training, Ciri would still have bursts of magic, go into trances… all manner of things I couldn’t train out of her.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted. “She’s better now, thankfully.”

“Somewhat,” Yennefer returned, letting out a soft sigh at the thought. “So long as she keeps her head about her, she can keep her powers under control. But she’s susceptible to outside influences. Magical ones, mostly, but… emotional ones as well.” Pursing her lips, she rubbed a pensive thumb along the weather-worn spines of the books still in her arms. “If I’d been able to train her sooner, I might’ve had more success preventing that,” she lamented. “But I know that’s not your fault. Calanthe was never going to give her up without a fight.”

“No,” Geralt agreed, letting out a soft, gruff chuckle at the memory of the steely lioness. She had tried to trick him into choosing the wrong child when he had first come for Ciri at the age of six, but he had refused to take any of the offered children, realizing there was no way he would be leaving with his actual ward so long as her protective grandmother still drew breath. “Can’t change the past, though.”

“I suppose,” Yennefer conceded, nodding along, still half-distracted. Then, suddenly, she stopped, her gaze drawn to something on his person. “Geralt…” she said, pointing towards his trouser pocket. “What… is that?”

Geralt faltered, looking down to see where she was pointing, only to frown as he spotted what she was looking at. A small, whitish shape stuck inconspicuously from the lip of his pocket, just large enough to be spotted by an observant viewer like his wife, but as he started to pull on it to get it out, he quickly realized that it was not a small object, but a folded, full-sized parchment, shoved nearly to the bottom of his pocket. He set his jaw as he slid it out, unfolding the paper to see what was written inside, only to turn quickly as soon as he finished, looking all around him to see where it had come from.

“It’s… the contract,” he said, looking up at Yennefer again, distressed. Glancing over his shoulder again, he scanned the street for any sign of the deliverer, but it seemed that Rosie – or whoever had put the contract in his pocket – had long since disappeared into the crowd. Whenever the paper had been snuck into his pocket, he had felt nothing, seen nothing, and he felt a chill run up his spine at the thought of having been so unobservant that an untrained child could have pulled something like this on him, undetected. If his heightened senses were so out of practice that a six-year-old could sneak up on him like that, then he had to wonder if Rosie was actually right, and the only reason his recent contracts had been so difficult had been because he was slowly losing his skills as a witcher.

“You’re not going to take it, are you?” Yennefer asked, folding her arms disapprovingly. “Just because she can’t take no for an answer doesn’t mean you should forget why we’re here.”

“Didn’t forget,” Geralt answered, shaking his head. “But…” He paused, staring down at the contract, unable to help his eyes from moving down to the final line again. He was too old to let foolish pride dictate his decisions, but he had always considered himself a witcher first, and had forgiven many of his other shortcomings with the thought that he had willingly given them up in pursuit of the Path. The idea, then, that he might be losing what he had always considered his defining feature was disturbing at best, but the only real way to test if those skills were truly waning would be to put them to trial in the field again. This job seemed simple enough in its own right – if nothing else, it would do well to test his senses – and it also paid unusually well for a job that sounded like a low-risk investigation, a fact which still seemed suspicious to him, despite his wounded pride making it difficult to think objectively.

“Yeah,” he finally said, not looking up at Yennefer as he spoke, intentionally avoiding what he knew would be a look of condemnation from his wife. “Think I will. It’s just one contract.”

“That’s what you said about the others, too,” Yennefer reminded him, her displeasure clear in her voice. “You realize, of course, that you won’t be able to go see Ciri if you’re dead.”

“It’s not the same, Yen,” Geralt answered, holding it out for her to look over. “Just an investigation. In and out, plus good pay. What could go wrong?” Yennefer hummed as she took the parchment, her eyes trailing slowly as she searched for hidden language, anything that might prove her inhibitions were correct, and Geralt was painfully naïve to believe otherwise. “I promise, Yen,” Geralt added after a moment, reaching out to take the paper back. “After we’re done shopping, I’ll do this, get paid, and be back before you know it. In fact, I’ll meet you in the catacombs. Ten o’ clock. You know I wouldn’t miss that.”

“I know you wouldn’t mean to,” Yennefer answered, still not sounding convinced. Then, letting out another sigh, she tossed her dark hair, before turning to look towards the stalls again. “Well, so long as we’ve finished our shopping before you go, I suppose I can’t see the harm,” she said after a moment. “If you do die, I’ll at least have your horse to help carry everything back to the house. And I’m sure there are plenty of strapping young men who’d be more than happy to help a beautiful grieving widow.”

“Glad to see you’re coping so well with my passing,” Geralt smirked, reaching out to place a hand on her waist.

Yennefer shrugged. “It’s the life of a witcher’s wife,” she returned, giving a soft sniff. “Tragic. Utterly tragic.”

* * *

Right from the start, the night had been shaping up to be a strange one, even by witcher standards. Geralt had gone down to the Clever Clogs at the time he expected to find Rudin there, only to find no trace of the corpse-collector in his usual spot at the bar. When he had asked the other working-men where Rudin might be, they had told him they had not seen him all day, and had assumed he was probably sick and would likely return to work on the morrow. When Geralt asked if they had seen any trace of Rudin’s boys, the men again shook their heads, claiming to have no knowledge of the boys’ whereabouts – and so, discouraged, the witcher had departed, heading instead for the location indicated in the contract to begin his investigation.

Roach blustered as Geralt checked the parchment, pulling on her reigns to guide her down a narrow side street, and he patted her neck, humming low in his throat to assure her he knew where he was going, even if he actually had no idea. Yennefer would not be happy with the news of Rudin’s absence, Geralt was sure, but he could not really be blamed for the corpse-collector’s untimely illness. Humans were fragile, and a man who worked with the dead was more likely to fall ill than others, he knew. If worst came to it, they could probably find a way to bring their purchases back on Roach – perhaps strapped to her saddle, or pulled behind her in a makeshift cart they could acquire in town. Either way, if Rudin was truly ill, the witcher had no intention of asking him to work; even if he, himself could not catch whatever Rudin had, he did not want to risk it spreading to the crib, and thereby endangering Yennefer or Shani on its arrival to Corvo Bianco.

It was nearing nightfall by the time he finally arrived to the location indicated by the contract, and he checked it again, ensuring he had identified the correct place from the vague instructions given. The building was a warehouse, long abandoned from the look of it, a fact which did little to quell his suspicions about the nature of the job; the smell of death wafted out from the open doors, and Geralt wrinkled his nose at the familiar odour, sliding a hand across his belt to ensure his potion satchel was still securely attached to his hip. With Rudin out of commission that day, there would have been no one to move the corpse from its position – meaning it was still inside where it had been left, undisturbed by well-intended interlopers.

Geralt hummed at the thought; apart from the smell, the preservation of the crime scene was a good thing, as less interference meant there would still be more intact clues to the identity of the unfortunate soul’s attacker. “Ah, plough me down,” a voice from behind him suddenly spoke, causing him to turn quickly, a bit startled by the interruption. The source of the voice was easy to find, as there was only one other person around to provide it: a tall man, standing a few yards back up the road, staring at the witcher and holding a dull machete at his side. Geralt tensed at the sight of the weapon, resisting the urge to reach for his own sword, but he only watched as the man came closer, his features sharpening as he entered the witcher’s focus.

“A damned witcher!” the man spoke again as he approached, indicating towards Geralt with his weapon. “Didn’t realize I’d be competing with a professional for the job. Got no chance of it now.”

Geralt relaxed at the comment, his hand stilling at his side, before he began to take in the man’s appearance; he was well-dressed, draped in a traveller’s cloak, with a stern face and hands not yet hardened from labour. The witcher paused as he stared down at the man’s hands, noticing with some surprise that the traveller was missing the same finger on both hands – his middle finger, removed at the base, leaving only a smooth dip between his index and ring fingers. The man faltered at his lingering gaze, glancing down at his hands as well, before looking up at Geralt again, his expression hardening even further in annoyance. “What of it?” he asked, harshly.

Geralt shook his head. “Just curious,” he answered. “Must’ve lost them a while ago. Fully healed over.”

“I didn’t _lose_ them, witcher,” the man returned, his grip tightening around the handle of the machete. “I was born this way. Birth defect. But people always_ think_ I lost them, which makes it hard to get work.” Sniffing a bit, he looked down at his hands again, running his opposite thumb over the protruding knuckle of the missing finger. “People think I’m clumsy,” he added. “Think I lost them in an accident. Always pass me over for other workers. Like _witchers_.” Looking up at Geralt again, the man narrowed his eyes, and Geralt frowned, before suddenly pausing as he began to hear a soft, persistent noise in the silence between the man’s words. It was too dull to recognize what it was at first, but as the man took another step closer, it began to grow louder, and Geralt soon realized with some surprise that the sound was actually the man’s beating heart.

He had never heard a heartbeat so loud – hammering like a war drum in the traveller’s chest – and he could not help wondering if this man was only trying to appear brave to cover an unimaginable level of fear. The witcher grunted at the thought, wondering if it was him who was upsetting the man with his very presence, or if the idea of losing his much-needed earnings to a more qualified monster hunter was what was setting him off. “Be happy to split the profit,” he offered. “Could probably use help identifying the creature. Or whatever caused the carnage in there. Haven’t looked yet, so don’t know for sure.”

“Didn’t hear nothing about a creature,” the man returned, his brows raising, heart starting to beat a bit faster. He paused, thoughtful, before bringing the machete up to rest it against his shoulder. “Makes sense though,” he added, tilting his head. “Don’t know many men who go about mutilating corpses. I’m not scared, mind you, just hoping it’s something simple. None of those strange exotic beasts.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, finding it harder and harder to concentrate on what the man was saying. His heartbeat had grown even louder as he spoke, and Geralt wondered if he was aware of its sound; as a witcher, he was sensitive to things like that, trained to pick up on indications of fear or weakness, but the doggedness with which this man’s heartbeat thrummed in his ears made him wonder if he had other health conditions apart from just his missing fingers. “Didn’t catch your name,” he said, trying to steer the topic back to something the man might find more comforting.

“Didn’t offer it,” the man said, not bothering to extend his hand. “It’s Mirik. I don’t care what your name is, witcher.”

“Fair enough,” Geralt agreed, nodding. “Guess we should investigate, then.”

Turning away from his unfriendly companion, the witcher started again for the doors of the abandoned warehouse, pausing a moment as he reached the crooked frame to take in the layout of the room inside. A high-set window in one wall of the building had been left open by its previous tenant, allowing a stream of misty moonlight to illuminate the warehouse floor, and Geralt could clearly spot the victim’s body still laying out where it had been first discovered. He frowned a bit as he stared at the corpse, unsure what he had been expecting to find; even from a distance, he could see that the man had been twisted in such a way that the witcher hoped he had been dead long before it happened. The man’s neck was broken, swollen and black – the killing blow, Geralt figured – and both his legs had been broken violently as well, making the poor sod an easy target for whatever had gotten to him.

Moving cautiously inside the warehouse, Geralt glanced around, inspecting for any sign of movement, before bending to kneel beside the corpse and turning him over to examine for more clues. The body was stiff as it was turned, and Geralt felt his stomach clench at the sight of the man’s expression, his milky eyes wide as he stared up into the rafters with a look of terror frozen on his ghostly face. “Rudin,” the witcher breathed, reaching out a hand to lightly touch the corpse-collector’s face. Rudin was pale as bleached bone as Geralt touched him, stiff as a plank of wood, and he frowned as he inspected the shrivelled body, noting the lack of blood around the corpse. He grimaced as he turned Rudin’s head between his fingers, hearing the cracks of rigor mortis as he searched for signs of trauma, before humming low in his throat as two deep, withering fang-marks became apparent on the man’s neck in the dim light.

“Vampire,” Geralt muttered, pulling a face. “Shit.” Letting go of Rudin again, he paused, before a sudden thought occurred to him: Rudin had been the town’s corpse-collector, which meant he would only have come out here to collect a body – but now his was the only body around, and Geralt felt his nerves tense at the implication. Had there been another corpse set out here before, one to attract in people like Rudin, it had since been methodically removed to make way for a newer lure – like a hunter refreshing a snare.

“Fuck,” Geralt hissed. “It’s a trap. Mirik—!”

Jumping to his feet, he turned to the warehouse doors, only to stop short as he realized the doorway was empty, and his fellow contract-taker gone. A dark shape lay on the floor where Mirik had stood, and the witcher hurried over to inspect the mass, only to hiss another curse as he realized it was only Mirik’s crumpled cloak and machete. Crouching down, Geralt listened for the telltale hammering of Mirik’s heart from somewhere in the warehouse, but he frowned when he was met with only silence, cursing himself for not noticing earlier. He should have been more aware, more vigilant, but he had been too distracted by Rudin to notice anything else going on around him – likely the vampire’s intent, he realized, though he doubted it had been expecting two meals to enter its domain instead of one.

Lifting Mirik’s cloak to his nose, Geralt inhaled, searching for some clue to what had taken his companion, and he was rewarded for his efforts with a familiar scent, though it took a moment to place what it reminded him of. The smell was similar to a bruxa, though there was something just disparate enough to give him pause, something musky and masculine that did not quite align with the scent of a female vampire. Dropping the cloak to the floor again, the witcher stood, reaching for his silver sword, before narrowing his eyes against the darkness and listening for the sound of movement in the rafters overhead. He could hear the faint skittering of something across the boards, a whispering that sounded almost like a hiss, and he held his breath, waiting for something to show itself before he made his move.

He did not have to wait long – a soft rushing sound was the only warning he got before he was suddenly slammed to the ground, pinned down by something massive jumping onto his back from the rafters. The witcher gasped as the wind was knocked out of him, before feeling as an enormous hand slid under his chin, lifting his head to expose his throat as a pair of fangs sank deep in the flesh of his neck. He shouted in pain as the creature fed, his vision swimming with the loss of blood, and he thrashed, struggling against its inhuman strength, before a sudden thought occurred to him. Grabbing his sword from the floor where it had fallen, he forced it back over his shoulder where the creature was feeding, smashing the monster in the face with the pommel and forcing it to let go.

The vampire screamed as metal connected with bone, before immediately turning its body to mist, and Geralt gasped, filling his lungs with air as the creature’s weight dissipated from his back. Sitting up quickly, he faltered as a wave of nausea crashed over him from the loss of blood, but he pushed himself through it, reaching up to feel his neck wound and making a face as he felt something still wedged in one of the holes. Pinching the mass, he hissed as he felt something hard slide out between his fingers, before looking down at the sharp piece of bone in his palm where the vampire’s tooth had broken off in his neck.

Pushing himself to his feet again, Geralt turned to face the vampiric mist, watching as it skirted a few yards away before materializing into its solid form. He felt his stomach drop as he stared at the creature, realizing he had never seen this type of vampire before: it was massive, easily seven feet tall, with a bulbous forehead and a giant, throbbing chest, and Geralt bit back a grimace as he watched its abdomen pulsate like a waterskin with every beat of its colossal heart. He should have known it would be something like this, he told himself – something completely off-book from all his hard work and studies at Kaer Morhen – but the fact that he once again found himself facing something he had no idea how to fight made him curse his curiosity and foolish pride.

“Fucking vampires,” Geralt growled, trying to remember if he had thought to brew a dose of Black Blood before coming. Spinning his wrist, he swung his sword around, stealing one last look over the monster in front of him, before he suddenly stopped, finding his gaze drawn in interest to the vampire’s hands. They were large, clawed and deadly, but that was not the feature he noticed most – it was that both its hands were missing the middle finger, severed uniformly at the base, as if they had never formed at all.

“Mirik,” Geralt hissed, looking up again and baring his teeth. “Should’ve known. Got a bad feeling from the start.”

Mirik snarled at the witcher, baring his broken teeth, before disappearing completely from sight, turning invisible the way Geralt had only ever seen higher vampires do. Geralt took a step back, readying his sword, before shoving his hand in his satchel for a bottle of Black Blood, feeling a wave of relief wash over him as his fingers closed around the familiar shape. Pulling the vial from his pack, he ripped the cork out with his teeth – but he did not get a chance to down the concoction before it was slapped from his hand by an invisible force, sending it skittering across the floor towards the stacked crates at the back of the warehouse. Geralt swore as he watched the bottle slide away, spilling precious liquid out across the dirty floor, and he quickly dove after it, snatching it up and downing what last few drops still remained at the bottom of the glass.

Throwing the now-empty vial aside, Geralt turned back, only to find the vampire already waiting, and before he could react, the monster tilted its head, sending a spike of psychic energy pulsing through his skull. Geralt growled in pain as his vision swam, clutching his head to dull the ache, but he forced himself to look up again regardless, watching as the vampire seemed to waver, before suddenly splitting into eight disparate copies, all moving entirely in sync. Geralt gritted his teeth at the cheap illusion, before picking a copy at random and swinging at its head, only to overbalance as his blade cut empty air, the mirage fading into smoke as soon as his weapon passed through it. Letting out a yell, he swung at another copy, only to once again find his sword without a solid target, and he swore as his blade cut through nothing again, hearing the grisly heartbeat growing louder with every failure.

Turning back again, Geralt held his weapon, watching as the last six copies began to close in on him. Then, thrusting his hand down, he cast an active Yrden focus, feeling the rush of chaos as it flared to life in the middle of the ring of illusions. The spell lit up the dark warehouse, crackling with magic in a jagged rune, and the vampires squealed as the mass of energy began firing homing bolts out in searing, violet arcs. The magic sizzled as it struck its targets, dissipating the copies one by one, until all that remained was the real vampire, who shrieked as it was blasted with a final discharge of magic.

Gripping its wound, the vampire hissed, springing back into the rafters again – but it was only gone for a second before Geralt felt its hands on him again, and a moment later, felt its savage jaws sink into his shoulder from behind. The witcher howled as the vampire buried its broken fangs into his shoulder, but it seemed what little Black Blood he had ingested had done its intended job, as the vampire quickly let go, gagging and choking as black vomit bubbled up over its chin. Using the monster’s distraction to his advantage, Geralt tore his arm free from the vampire’s grasp, grabbing his sword and turning to face the creature before driving his blade through the left side of its massive chest. The vampire shrieked as the sword pierced through it, the blade bursting from its back in a spray of gore, and Geralt twisted it deeper, listening for the sound of its monstrous heartbeat slowing in its chest.

It took him a moment to realize that the sound he hoped for was not coming – in fact, if anything, it seemed his efforts had only caused the organ to pump more vigorously. Another spurt of blood from the wound drew his attention back to the vampire, and he watched in horror as three other sections of its enormous chest began to throb more furiously, the chambers of a heart he now realized comprised its entire upper torso pulsating like live hares trying to break free from a hunter’s sack. The vampire screamed, swiping out with a massive claw, and Geralt recoiled as he felt its nails slash across his chest, piercing through the leather and padding of his armour to the tender skin underneath. Then, before he could stop it, the vampire leapt into the darkened rafters again, taking his silver sword along with it, still sticking out from both sides of its enormous chest.

Geralt staggered back, wiping a mix of his and the vampire’s blood from his face, before looking around anxiously for the creature, listening for the sound of its heartbeat to alert him to its location. Reaching for his crossbow, he loaded a bolt into it, waiting for a sign of movement to alert him the monster was coming back for more. No sooner had he finished loading his crossbow bolt when a sudden flicker of motion from the corner caught his attention, and he spun quickly, aiming with deadly precision and loosing the bolt into the vampire’s face. The bolt whistled as it zeroed in on its mark, before zipping straight through to lodge in the wall instead, the image of the vampire vanishing into smoke as soon as the missile passed through it.

Geralt swore at the trick, loading up another bolt, before taking a step back as seven more shapes began to emerge from the shadows all around him. This was just the same as last time, he told himself, though he had worn himself out too much with the last sign to be able do the same thing again just yet. Gripping his crossbow, he looked between the vampires, watching them closely for some sign, some tell, and he was rewarded for his observation as he noticed one moving just a millisecond before the others. Its movements were so subtly off the perfect sync that he would never have noticed had he not been looking for it, but he quickly took aim at it, launching a bolt into the vampire’s frontal lobe and grinning as he heard the arrow sink into its mark.

The vampire shrieked as the bolt found purchase, gripping its head and staggering back, and as Geralt watched, the other copies began to flicker out, leaving only the wounded vampire to face its prey. Seeing his chance, Geralt quickly rushed forward, yanking at his sword to pull it free from the vampire’s chest – but the vampire hissed as it felt pressure on the blade, before leaping into the rafters again, this time taking the witcher with it. The vampire perched upside-down in the rafters, hissing and snarling at its unwelcome hanger-on, and Geralt swore as he dangled from the sword’s handle, feeling his arms start to ache with the weight. A sudden jolt from the blade drew his attention upward, and he watched in horror as the bloodied weapon began to slip from the vampire’s chest, weighed down as it was now with his added mass.

Glancing down, Geralt growled in frustration, realizing he would break his legs from a fall this high, before looking up again and letting go of the silver sword with one hand, using it to reach back for his meteorite blade. His shoulder ached like needles on fire as he sought to support himself with a single arm’s grip, but he slowly drew his steel sword from its sheath at his back, before letting out a yell and plunging it into the right side of the vampire’s chest. The vampire screamed as the second blade skewered it, puncturing another chamber of its massive heart, and before Geralt could react, the monster turned to mist again, sending the witcher and both his swords falling towards the warehouse floor.

Thinking quickly, Geralt held out a hand, casting a bubble of Quen around himself, and he barked in pain as it slammed against the floor, the forcefield bursting violently around him. The shield was only meant to take one hit, he knew, and most hits were nowhere near comparable to this kind of fall, so the fact that it had spared him from taking worse damage than he had was a blessing in itself. Getting shakily to his bruised feet, Geralt grabbed both his swords up from the floor, sheathing the meteorite sword on his back before turning to look for the vampire again. He could hear hissing coming from somewhere nearby, the noise slithering in and out of the shadows around him, but he did not have a chance to find the source of the sound before he felt a sudden pain in the back of his calf, sending him to one knee.

Geralt hissed in pain at the vampire’s newest attack, using his sword to struggle back to his feet, but he did not have time to fully right himself before he felt something strike him in the back of the head, knocking him down again. He could hear the loud beating of the vampire’s heart behind him, and a second later, felt its grisly weight on his back again, pinning him down, and he shouted, clawing at the floor, trying desperately to drag himself free of the vampire’s mass. His efforts were entirely in vain, however, as the monster leaned forward, smashing his sword hand with a heavy fist, and Geralt screamed as the sound of breaking bones reached his ears, pulling his wounded hand in protectively to his chest.

Gritting his teeth, the witcher twisted around, blasting the vampire with Igni from his one working hand, and the vampire shrieked as the flames licked its face, turning to mist to avoid the worst of the burns. Geralt panted as he struggled to his feet again, clutching his broken hand to his chest, before bending down and fumbling to pick up his silver sword with his non-dominant hand. Holding his sword with his wounded arm, he reached into his satchel, rummaging desperately for a vial of Swallow, only to feel something rush past him inhumanly fast, its wicked claws swiping up his spine to the back of his head. The force of the blow sent him back to the floor, and he coughed, seeing warm blood spray onto the ground in front of him, before sliding his hand down into his satchel again, feeling around urgently for the vial of Swallow.

Geralt hissed in relief as he felt his hand close around the tulip-bulb shape of the healing potion, and he pulled it out quickly, uncorking it with his teeth and gulping the concoction down. He could feel the Swallow starting to take effect as soon as it passed his tongue, but he knew it would be a few minutes at least before his hand would be usable again. Pressing his elbow into the dirt, the witcher started to push himself to his feet again, only to be slammed back down to the ground once more as the vampire jumped onto his back again, this time taking hold of the back of his head and smashing his face into the floor.

Geralt saw stars as his head was lifted again, feeling the world start to tilt around him, but he did not have time to regain his thoughts before his face was slammed to the ground again, and again after that, over and over, leaving a bloody pool as his nose and lips split from the beating. He could feel his nose break as it made contact with the floor, cracking loudly in his ringing ears as he braced for another blow, and he coughed again, dribbling blood and saliva over his broken lips as he reached desperately for his silver sword. Realizing what the witcher was doing, the vampire snarled, kicking the sword away across the floor, before grabbing him up by the scruff of the neck, yanking his head back so roughly Geralt felt his neck crack with the force of the motion. Letting out a hiss, the vampire sunk its fangs eagerly into the witcher’s throat again, starting to gorge itself as the half-dose of Black Blood began to lose its weak effect.

Geralt wheezed as the vampire drank, feeling his consciousness start to slip away, before he gritted his teeth, reaching back to take hold of the monster’s neck in a steely grip. The vampire shrieked in surprise at the contact, but it did not have time to detach itself before Geralt turned, sinking his own teeth into the monster’s meaty neck. He could taste vile fur and blood on his tongue as he ripped a chunk from the vampire’s throat, and the creature screamed, releasing the witcher as Geralt spit the hunk of flesh onto the floor. The vampire hissed at the blatant injustice, its eyes glowing red in its hideous face, before it suddenly began to change before his dreading eyes, shifting shape into a massive, monstrous bat.

Spreading its newly gargantuan wingspan, the transformed vampire grabbed Geralt in its claws, lifting him into the air and barrelling out the open warehouse window into the night. Geralt could feel the rush of cold wind against his face as the vampire climbed higher through the scenic sky, and he thrashed against the monster’s grip, trying to pull his steel sword from its scabbard, only to realize he was pressed too firmly against the vampire’s chest to draw his weapon. Thinking quickly, Geralt reached to his belt, feeling around for the familiar shape of his beheading knife, until, finally finding it, he slid it out, stabbing it under his arm and into the vampire’s pulsating chest. The vampire shrieked at the sudden wound, surprised and affronted at having been attacked in flight, before Geralt felt it suddenly withdraw its grip around him, sending him plummeting towards the streets of Beauclair.

The witcher swore as he felt the wind whip against his face, knowing a Quen bubble would do him no good against a fall like this, until he suddenly remembered his use of Aard to propel himself during the cemetaur fight. Taking a chance, he thrust out his hand, signing the blast of energy through the open air, and he was surprised and relieved when it did exactly as he hoped, sending him crashing into a nearby rooftop. Rolling to his feet, Geralt quickly regained his balance, sliding down the tiled incline to drop to a second-story balcony. Then, descending down a nearby ladder, he began to make his way for the warehouse again, drawing his steel sword as he ran.

The witcher breathed heavily as he reached the warehouse doors, looking around for some sign of the monster, only to find himself immediately knocked back by a mighty gust as the vampire rushed past him in mist form. His steel sword clattered to the ground as he fell, and he growled, struggling to grab it again, only to find his hand pinned to the ground by the vampire’s mighty foot. The vampire, back in its transitional form, hissed, picking up the steel sword from the ground, before grabbing the witcher by the hair with its other massive hand and tossing him carelessly into the middle of the warehouse floor. Geralt shouted in pain as he landed on his ribs, clutching his side as he looked up towards the vampire again, before his gaze was suddenly drawn to something the monster had apparently overlooked – the place he had been thrown was almost within reach of the silver sword he had dropped earlier, and, dragging himself over to it, Geralt snatched it up, before staggering to his feet again and turning to face the vampire.

He did not manage to get in even a single swing before he found himself suddenly slapped to the ground again, causing his head to ring as he clambered dizzily back to his hands and knees. Picking up his sword again, Geralt struggled to his feet, before he sensed movement coming his way, and he ducked, rolling out of the way of another invisible strike, feeling the rush of air as the vampire swiped for him again. Taking advantage of his momentary edge, the witcher dropped down, sliding across the floor behind the vampire, before jumping to his feet on the other side and taking a mighty swing, feeling the satisfying resistance in his muscles as metal connected with invisible flesh.

The vampire screamed as an enormous piece of it went flying into the air, and Geralt felt a rush of adrenaline as he realized he had cut off one of the monster bat’s mighty wings. He did not have long to celebrate, however, before he found himself slapped to the floor by the vampire’s one remaining wing, causing his ears to ring like never before as he struggled to regain his feet. It was back in its transitional form again by the time he managed to find his footing, and he panted, staring in fascination at the bloody stump where its muscular arm used to be. Brandishing his sword again, the witcher gave another swing, only to look on in horror as the vampire threw up its remaining hand, catching it in flight. Gripping the silver sword, the vampire ripped it from Geralt’s startled grasp, before driving it mightily into the ground, shattering it before his disbelieving eyes.

The vampire shrieked at its proud achievement, kicking the broken pieces aside, and Geralt swore, realizing that his only weapons now were his crossbow and the beheading knife still lodged in the vampire’s lower chest. The vampire hissed at him, before it suddenly rushed forward, stabbing its claws into the witcher’s stomach, and Geralt doubled in pain, feeling its nails puncture his intestines. Gasping for breath, the witcher gritted his teeth, looking up at the monster with hateful, bloodshot eyes, before stretching out with both hands to grab hold of the beheading knife, impaling himself further in his effort to reach. He could feel his strength waning as he pulled on the knife, but he gave it a sharp yank anyway, dragging it across the monster’s flesh, using it to slice open the creature’s chest to reveal its beating heart.

The vampire screamed as it felt its skin split, digging its claws even deeper into the witcher’s stomach, and Geralt growled in pain, feeling a warm rush of blood spill over his lips and onto the floor. Letting the knife drop from his shaking grasp, the witcher shoved his hands deep inside the gash he had created, snaking them between the bones of the vampire’s ribcage and feeling for the last two beating chambers of its massive heart. He could feel the warmth of the organ through his gloves, the sickening rhythm pulsating through his body as he cupped it in his numbing palms, and, with one last scream from the vampire, Geralt crushed the last two chambers of its heart between his bloodied hands.

The vampire opened its jaws to howl, but this time, only a gurgling sound came out. As Geralt watched, a fountain of blood began to trickle from its mouth into its matted fur; its vile red eyes began to dim, the light fading as its expression began to slacken, and, after another moment, the vampire slumped, its claws sliding from his stomach with a slick sucking sound as it collapsed to the floor, finally dead. Geralt panted as he stood over the vampire, holding a hand against his stomach to keep his intestines from spilling out, before reaching up a gloved hand to wipe the blood from his chin, not realizing he was only leaving more in its wake. He looked down to the beheading knife, and then to the vampire again, wondering if it would be worth it to take a trophy from this monster – before a sudden, blackening dizziness overtook him, and he staggered, collapsing to the floor beside the beast.

The world spun around him as he fought to stay conscious, forcing himself to stay upright through his pain. Looking down to his wound again, he faltered at the shape, at the four uniform holes punctured through the leather of his armour; he could feel panic start to flood his brain at the sight, but he shut his eyes tightly, pushing the memory aside, before drawing in a shaky breath, feeling the sharp ache of his punctured lung as he fought to fill it with air. Another wave of faintness washed over him as he sat, and he fumbled for his satchel, feeling in vain for another dose of Swallow – but his search turned up nothing, and, with no strength left, he finally allowed himself to collapse to the floor, barely feeling the dull thump as his head hit the ground.

He could feel his eyelids growing heavier as he stared up at the moonlit window, the blood on his lashes sticking to his cheeks as he fought to keep them from closing. He wondered if Yennefer would think to find him here, or if she would even bother to look for him at all, after he had left her so unceremoniously high and dry in the catacombs that evening. He had promised to come for her after he was done here, but it seemed she was destined to be disappointed, let down once again by some stupid decision from her predictable witcher husband.

A night in the catacombs would have been a nice thing to live long enough to experience, Geralt thought, before he finally closed his eyes, allowing darkness to overtake him.


	8. Yarrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy the chapter, and that everyone has been staying safe and healthy ♡

The first thing Geralt smelled was lavender.

It was warm, wherever he found himself – cosy, orangish, with the afterscent of medicinal salve. There was something light and soft on his body, something covering him in the absence of his armour, and he grunted a bit, shifting in place, feeling as sensation began to slowly return to his extremities. He flexed his previously broken hand, feeling the ache of bones having only recently knitted, before opening his eyes, staring groggily at the ceiling, trying to decipher where he was and how he had gotten there.

The last thing he remembered was darkness; before that, there was only cold, blood, and indescribable pain, with the silvery moon filtering wan light through the window to illuminate the carnage of a trap he had unwittingly walked into. He remembered lying on the warehouse floor, the smell of packed dirt soaked with gore, and the singular thought of how much he would miss living, because living meant being with Yennefer. He vaguely remembered a flash of gold filtering in through his weary lids after that, but everything else was just a black abyss, an unconsciousness that had swallowed him whole, one he had been convinced was death.

It was strange to think that nothingness was the only thing that awaited him after his final defeat; he had died once before, with Yennefer, and thanks to Ciri, they had found tranquillity waiting for them on the other side. Perhaps that was why he found nothing this time, he thought – he had turned his back on paradise once, and in return, paradise had abandoned him when he once again crossed the veil.

The mystery of the afterlife was not long-lived, however, as the scent of lavender soon reached his weary senses, and, soon after, the muffled sound of someone humming began to buzz gently at his ears. Fluttering his lashes, Geralt groaned, feeling the first pangs of reality begin to settle in; his body felt like wet clay, heavy and shapeless, but he could still distinctly feel the pain of his injuries as they began to return in full. Shani looked up at the sound of her patient waking, stopping quickly in her idle humming, before moving to sit on the edge of his bed, picking up a handcloth from the nightstand and using it to dab cool water across his forehead. “You’re awake,” she observed, brushing a lock of sweaty hair from his face. “I was afraid you might not make it. I’ve never seen wounds quite like the ones you came in with.”

“Shani…?” Geralt croaked, barely able to force the word out.

“Shh, don’t speak,” Shani insisted, gently, reaching over to touch the bandage on his throat. Lifting it slightly, she peered under it, checking the status of the wound, before letting out a soft sigh and pressing it down again, reaching back to dip her handcloth in the cool water by his bed. “You injured your neck pretty badly,” she told him, ringing the excess water back into the bowl. “Whatever attacked you knew exactly where to puncture to hit a major artery. You’re lucky you didn’t bleed out from that neck wound alone.”

“Vampire,” Geralt answered, shortly, coughing as the word scratched his swollen throat. “Bit me… three times.”

“Ah, see, there’s your problem,” Shani returned, nodding. “Should’ve told it to stop after one.”

Geralt glanced up to see if she was smiling at her own joke, and sure enough, he could see the faintest hint of a smirk on her lips, though he could tell she was trying hard to hide her cheeky grin as she turned to him again, starting to dab cool water across his face. “I’m glad I learned a little about witchers before this happened,” she told him, a slightly more playful tone to her voice now. With him awake and talking, he figured, she had less reason to be on edge, and he could feel tangible tension leaving the room as she tended to him. “Like how your heartbeats slow down to preserve energy. Quite useful when you’re a witcher and you need that extra energy, but disconcerting when you’re looking for a pulse to make sure someone isn’t dead.”

Geralt snorted at the comment, coughing as a chuckle got stuck in his throat, but Shani only gave a soft huff, setting her cloth aside on the nightstand again. Looking down at Geralt then, she paused, considering him for another moment, before reaching out to pull the sheets down on the bed, uncovering his heavily bandaged chest. He could feel cold air on his skin as the covers were drawn away, but he could still not quite convince himself to move, despite his senses becoming clearer the longer he listened to Shani’s grounding voice.

“You’re lucky Yennefer studied your alchemy,” Shani told him, picking up a shoulder-satchel from the floor and moving it to her lap. Looking down, Geralt could see a few familiar poultices sticking out from the lip of the bag, along with a collection of medicinal leaves in glass vials that reminded him of his own potion bottles. “She managed to brew a few batches of Swallow for me to use in addition to my own medicine,” Shani continued. “Without that, I don’t think you would’ve made it. You were losing blood quickly, but you also had intestinal leakage, which comes with a high risk of infection. I had to stop the bleeding, but If I’d tried to sew you up like that, you might have died of toxic shock, even with your advanced healing.”

Pushing aside a few smaller bottles, Shani pulled out a jar of red liquid that Geralt immediately recognized as the aforementioned Swallow, setting it down on the bedside table beside the handcloth and the bowl of water. “The Swallow healed your intestinal wounds so I could sew up your stomach without risk of infection,” she concluded. “It also helped with managing some surface wounds I wasn’t comfortable trying to fix with surgery just yet.” Looking up at Geralt again, she paused, her hazel eyes trailing down the bandages on his chest, before she set the satchel aside again, instead getting up to fetch something from a far corner of the room. Geralt huffed as she stood from the bed, taking the opportunity to look down at his body, and he made a face as he stared down at his broken form for the first time since waking up.

His wounds were still bloody, which was disconcerting, though he had no idea how long he had been out to give them time to heal. Wounds from supernatural creatures were different than wounds from non-magical creatures, he knew, and he had no idea if the vampire had had something in its venom which would cause his wounds to resist healing. Letting out a groan, he lifted his head, feeling the weight of his body pulling him back towards the bed, but he fought against it, pushing himself up onto his elbows to look down at the rest of his injuries.

Lifting the covers, he tossed them aside, looking down at the bandages that covered him from head to toe – at the gruesome residue of blood and pus that crusted the surface of his dressings, at the black and yellow bruises that covered both legs, his entire ribcage, and both of his arms. Reaching to his back, he felt the soft cloth of bandages running the length of his spine, and he made a face as his fingers trailed over a surface that was more compress than witcher. “How long has it been?” Geralt croaked, looking up at Shani again, letting his tired arm fall back to his side. “How… did I get here? I thought… I was…”

“You were,” Shani answered, not waiting for him to finish. “You’ve been out for three days. And you have Yennefer to thank for bringing you back.” Returning to his bedside, she made a face as she saw him sitting up, but she quickly shook her head, deciding it was not worth it to argue. Witchers were restless, and Geralt was the worst of them – an idle body meant an unprepared mind, which made an easy target for watchful adversaries. Setting down the two buckets she now carried in her arms, she sat on the edge of the bed again, reaching out to gingerly touch his bandages. “I need to stitch up your wounds,” she told him. “I’m pretty sure they’ve healed enough that I can finally do it without the skin tearing. But I need to disinfect them first, so it’s probably going to hurt.”

Geralt grunted at her honesty, nodding to give her the go-ahead, and Shani nodded back, before starting to gingerly unwind the bandages around his chest. He could feel the cloth sticking to the pus from the wounds on his back, but he bit back a grimace at the feeling, not wanting Shani to think he was ungrateful for her work. This was just as unpleasant for her as it was for him, he knew, and if she was not complaining about it, then he had no grounds to complain, either. “How… did I get back?” he asked, still hoarse, though he could hear his voice returning the more he used it.

“Yennefer portalled you here,” Shani answered, pulling the last of the first bandage free. Winding it into a compact ball, she dropped it into one of the buckets she had brought over, before starting to undo the second wrapping, her expression impassive as it pulled free from the wound with a ghoulish puckering sound. “Thankfully I’d finished watching all the megascope records before it happened,” she continued, no inflection in her voice to indicate she was at all affected by the gruesomeness of her task. “I was out in the garden when she suddenly appeared. There was a flash of light, and then this giant portal opened, and out stepped Yennefer, covered in blood and dragging a body.”

Pausing in her unwrapping, Shani shuddered bit at the memory of the sorceress’ murderous appearance. “It was downright grisly,” she admitted, careful not to pull too hard on the stubborn dressing. “I very near wet myself from fright when I saw it— which is a perfectly legitimate reason to wet one’s self. It was absolutely _not_ because I have a hard time _not_ wetting myself these days, even without a giant blood-stained portal opening over the begonias.” Looking up at Geralt then, she paused, as if waiting for some reaction. “That was a pregnancy joke, Geralt,” she told him. “It’s okay to laugh.”

“I don’t get it,” Geralt admitted, honestly.

Shani shook her head, another small smile lighting her lips. “It’s okay,” she said, tossing the second bundle of used wrappings into the bucket. “I’ll explain another time. For now, can you turn over? I need to get to the lacerations on your back.”

Geralt nodded, before doing as he was told, turning over on his side to allow Shani a full view of his back. He wondered what it actually looked like back there – from the state of the discarded bandages, it seemed like a pulpy massacre, but without actually seeing the extent of the damage he could not fully comprehend what he had just lived through. Turning his head, he tried to glance over his shoulder at the nail-marks sliced into his back, but he could only see the white shape of Shani’s cloth as she dabbed warm soapy water on his wounds, tending to his injuries with a touch so gentle he had barely even felt her beginning to wash him.

She was good at her work – damn good, he told himself – and it always amazed him how humble she was about that fact. He watched her over his shoulder as she concentrated, her hazel eyes solemn as she focused on his injuries, as if his wounds were the only thing in the world that mattered. “What’d you find out?” he finally spoke, causing her to look up in surprise, pulled from her medical trance. “About the megascope records. Said you finished watching them. What’d you find out?”

Shani considered for a moment, her lips thinning into a soft pink line, her washcloth hovering over his wounds as she let out a soft hum. “Well…” she finally answered, starting to gently wash his back again. “I discovered that Moreau’s research was very grotesque… but it was also very thorough, which was incredibly helpful.” Wringing the blood from her towel again, she dipped it back in the soapy water, before starting to wash near the nape of his neck, causing him to give a soft hiss as she dabbed at the deepest of his cuts. “It was helpful that the focus of his research was specifically in the hopes of reversing his son’s sterility,” she continued, gingerly brushing his dishevelled hair aside to get to the back of his neck. “If nothing else, it gave me a starting point for trying to piece together what might have gone into that potion you took. Just… nothing specific that would explain what actually happened. Medically speaking.”

Wringing out her bloody towel again, Shani draped it over the edge of the soapy bucket, before reaching down to her satchel and pulling out a curved sewing-needle and fishing-twine. Looking to the candles around the room, she paused, considering getting up, before looking to Geralt instead and holding out the needle, offering him a hopeful smile. “Help me out?” she asked, her voice optimistic. Geralt faltered, but did as he was asked, holding out a hand to produce a small flicker of Igni, and Shani eagerly tipped her needle into the flames, toasting the metal brown, before retrieving it again and blowing on it, cooling it and threading it for use. “Now sit still,” she said, reaching out to pinch his reddened skin. “This will hurt, but it’ll be over soon. Hopefully it’ll keep you from scarring more than you already have.”

“Don’t mind scars,” Geralt answered, honestly. “Got plenty of them as it is.”

Shani said nothing to this, but her pretty brow furrowed in concentration as she made her first prick, carefully sliding the needle through his skin and pulling it through to the other side of the laceration. Geralt clenched his teeth as he felt the skin being pulled taut, a burning and pinching sensation he never grew quite accustomed to, but he made no sound, only balling his fist into the edge of his pillow as he waited for her to finish her work. “Moreau’s research was not part of the study from Oxenfurt that created your potion, unfortunately,” Shani went on after a moment, gently pulling the skin closed on a new stitch with a few soft, assuring tugs. “He was an independent researcher, trying to figure it out on his own. Though I doubt there’s more than one way to go about successfully altering the sterility of witchers.”

She paused at this thought, before making another stitch. “Except perhaps the use of dark magic,” she conceded, the same playful tone entering her voice again. “We shouldn’t dismiss that possibility.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, uncomfortable with the joke. Dark magic was no laughing matter when it came to his and Yennefer’s affairs, but he was not about to scold Shani for something she had no reason to know. A weary silence fell over the room as she continued to work, gingerly sewing her way up his spine to the worst wounds at the back of his neck, until he finally felt the last catch of the needle being pulled through, and the satisfying snip of the twine being cut. Shani let out a soft sigh as she set her needle and twine aside, before bending to pull her soapy bucket forward again, letting out a huff as she bent to reach it. Geralt frowned a bit at the show of effort, wondering if simple actions were really that much harder already, but he said nothing, not wanting to embarrass her in case she was still trying not to let on that she was having difficulties.

“I’m going to wash your back again,” Shani announced, lifting her soapy towel. “Then I’m going to apply some Swallow and bandage your stitches up. That’s enough doctoring for one day, I think, but I just wanted to be sure you were well enough before I tried anything.”

“Appreciate it,” Geralt answered, nodding his gratitude over his shoulder. The soapy cloth against his back felt clean and cool in contrast with his stitches, and he let out a soft grunt, nestling his chin into his pillow as he waited for her to finish. “Shani,” he said after a moment, speaking slowly as he formulated his thoughts. “Did you… keep in contact with the couple from Murky Waters? The ones taking care of Alvin?”

Shani frowned at the question, wringing out her towel before dipping it again in the soapy water. “Alvin?” she asked, thinking about it. Then, shaking her head, she began to dab at his stitches again. “No,” she answered. “I tried, but they stopped responding to my letters after a while. Why? What made you think of them?”

“Thinking about Alvin,” Geralt returned, giving a weak shrug. “Topic of Sources came up in Beauclair. Hadn’t thought about him in a while, but… can’t stop thinking about him now.” He frowned a bit at the thought of the boy, starting to pick distractedly at his broken nails – in truth, he had almost forgotten about Alvin entirely until Shani had come back into his life, and even then it had taken him until just now to realize she had never been made aware of the child’s unfortunate fate. Geralt, himself had only recently discovered what became of the lad – barely six months prior – and only then by coincidence, having picked up a book out of pure curiosity and finding a letter addressed to the witcher inside, tying events together in a way that even he, a hardened cynic, found difficult to dismiss.

“Can’t help thinking about the last time we had to make a tough decision,” he added, speaking again after a moment of silence. “Another kid with circumstances nobody understood.”

“Alvin’s circumstances weren’t exactly the same,” Shani answered, her frown deepening a bit more at the thought. “Others wanted to use him for his powers. I just wanted him to be happy and safe. But we knew what he was, at the end of the day. Even if not a lot of people really understood it.” Finished with her washing, she draped her used towel over the edge of the second bucket, before cleaning her hands on a fresh, dry cloth and picking up the jar of Swallow from the bedside table. Taking the handcloth she had used to cool his face, she dipped it in the potion, wetting it through, before starting to gently spread the liquid over his stinging stitches.

Geralt gave a low hum at the soothing sensation, taking in a deep breath and closing his eyes, grateful for the doctor’s healing hands and Yennefer’s infinite resourcefulness. “I couldn’t go out there myself to check on him after they stopped responding to me,” Shani added after a moment, shaking her head. “I had my own work to do. Then, one day, I met someone who had recently come from Murky Waters. I asked him if the three of them were alright, but…” Letting out a deep sigh, she dipped the cloth into the Swallow again, starting to spread it generously across a line of stitches snaking between his shoulder-blades. “He said the young couple had moved away a few months back, and nobody had seen Alvin in a while, either,” she said. “Maybe he moved with them, I don’t know. I hope so. It just seems strange that they would up and leave like that, without bothering to tell anyone where they were going. They could have at least told me. Or you.”

Securing the cork back in the jar of Swallow then, she let out another soft, overburdened sigh. “There wasn’t anything else I could do,” she added, disappointedly. “I guess I’ll never know what became of poor Alvin.”

Geralt hesitated, debating for a moment whether it would be better to say something, or leave the situation as it was. This way, Shani was spared the knowledge that the boy she had gone out of her way to protect had grown up to be a despicable xenophobe, and had died at Geralt’s own hand – but the look on her face that spoke of her remorse in not keeping better tabs on Alvin made a swell of guilt rise in his chest, and he took a breath, readying himself to speak the awful truth. No sooner had he opened his mouth to speak when the door to the bedroom suddenly swung open, and a new figure rushed in, her dark hair bounding in frazzled ringlets over her shoulders as she turned towards the bed to see if the witcher was awake.

Yennefer looked as he had hardly ever seen her – her lips were unpainted, her hair untamed, and a faint line of darkness had hollowed under her violet eyes, betraying a lack of sleep the likes of which he had not known her to suffer in years. “I thought I heard voices,” the sorceress announced, breathless. “Is Geralt awake?”

“For now,” Shani answered, nodding with a soft smile. “I just need to finish bandaging his stitches. Then I can leave you two to your own devices.”

“Hey, Yen,” Geralt greeted her, offering her his best half-grin. His face still hurt, but he felt it was worth it to let her know he was glad to see her looking so worried for his well-being.

Yennefer froze at the sight of Geralt in the bed, at the gruesome line of stitches making a puffy ladder up the length of his spine, and she pursed her lips, her hand moving to grasp the door handle, fumbling a few times before finally taking hold. “I see,” she said, her voice forcibly stiff. “And how long would you recommend he stay on bedrest? With injuries like his, I can’t imagine he’ll be ready to move around again anytime soon.”

“At least a week,” Shani answered, turning to look back at Geralt again. “Though I’d prefer he do two or three, if I’m being totally honest. He _is_ a witcher, but the damage he took wasn’t negligible, even so.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Yennefer agreed, her jaw visibly clenching. “Three weeks seems very short, for what he went through. Don’t you think?”

“For most, yes,” Shani admitted, pulling a length of rolled bandages from her supply satchel and starting to unravel them. “Lucky for Geralt, though, he heals faster than most. He’ll be good to walk around again in a week or two. I wouldn’t recommend any strenuous activity for at least a month – like horseback riding – but…” Looking up at Geralt again, she let out a hefty sigh. “I know better than to try to stop him from doing whatever he wants,” she said, starting to carefully wrap the length of the bandage around his back and chest. “With or without my medical advisement.”

“He is a stubborn one, isn’t he?” Yennefer answered, coldly, looking to her husband again. “Never listens to anyone, even when they know what’s best for him.”

Shani said nothing, only making a face as she continued to wrap Geralt’s stitches, making it clear that she knew he was in trouble and she wanted no part of it. Yennefer sighed as she watched the doctor work, before crossing to sit beside her on the bed, resting her hand by Geralt’s injured leg as she took in the extent of his damages. “Shani told you how you got here, didn’t she?” she finally asked. “After you blacked out from blood loss, I found you in that warehouse and portalled you back home. I knew nobody would be able to treat your injuries as well as Shani.” She paused for a moment, as if expecting some reaction, before finally letting out a soft huff, raising a brow. “Nothing?” she asked. “That’s a bit disappointing. I was expecting some snide comment about how much you hate portals.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, a weak smirk gracing his lips. “Starting to warm up to them a little after this.”

Yennefer pursed her lips, turning her head to watch as Shani continued to wrap his stitches. “Thankfully Shani was incredibly level-headed about the whole thing,” she added after a moment. “Clearly she’s grown accustomed to your antics by now.”

“I _am_ a field medic,” Shani answered, softly. “I’m used to treating drop-ins.”

Geralt snorted at the joke, but Yennefer only frowned deeper, before looking down to smooth the rumpled material of her trousers. “I found someone to help bring Shani’s crib and our supplies back from town,” she announced, changing the subject. “Two boys. They said they knew you, Geralt, and that you’d helped them out recently.” Looking up at her husband then, she paused, before sighing, folding her hands in her lap. “I heard about your friend as well,” she told him. “I’m sorry something happened to him. The boys mentioned that they’d worked for him, so I offered them jobs as stable-hands here. They’re here now. They’re not very bright, but they’re determined workers. I suppose that’s what really matters.”

Geralt nodded, relieved to hear that the boys had not suffered the same fate as their employer. He had worried about them when the working-men had admitted to not seeing them all day, but he supposed without Rudin to tell them what to do, they had simply wandered off to fish again. “How’d you know to come looking for me?” he asked after a moment, looking back over his shoulder at Yennefer again. “Figured you’d think I just forgot. Thought I’d be dead before you found me.”

Yennefer huffed at the question, shaking her head. “Please, Geralt,” she told him. “I know you better than that. I knew that death was the only thing that would keep you from an opportunity to get your dick wet.”

It was Shani’s turn to snort this time, but she quickly sucked the sound back in again, giving a small cough as she tied off the end of the bandages she had been applying. “All done,” she announced, looking up with a smile. “I’ll leave you two to your own devices.” Reaching out to Geralt then, she rested her hand gently on his shoulder, before pushing herself up from the bed with some effort and collecting her buckets and medical supplies from the floor. “I’ll take these over to the clinic,” she told them, turning back at the door to make sure she had gotten all her materials. “I’ll be back in a while to treat your leg, Geralt. In the meantime, don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Shani,” Yennefer returned, offering the doctor a grateful smile. As the door closed behind her, Yennefer turned back to Geralt again, her violet eyes solemn as she stared at the bandages now covering most of his chest. “She did a good job,” she commented, softly. “You might even walk again, if you’re lucky.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, taking his scolding. “Thanks for coming to find me, Yen.”

Yennefer sighed, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “Yes, well,” she told him, long-sufferingly. “I almost didn’t. While I was waiting for you, I met a lovely young man who told me I reminded him of a song he’d once heard. It was quite flattering.”

“Oh?” Geralt smirked, turning onto his back again. “And what song was that?”

At this, Yennefer sighed again, sounding much more put-upon this time. “The Wolven Storm,” she answered. “I simply couldn’t sleep with him once I found out. _So_ disappointing. I’ll give a man credit for poetry, but not for blatant observation.”

Geralt chuckled at his wife’s stark humour. “Guess I should learn some poetry, then.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Yennefer returned, turning her gaze to look down at him again. “Listening to you recite verse is like trying to sleep on a hornet’s nest.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Geralt answered, smirking.

Yennefer nodded. “As you should,” she told him. “And while you’re at it, do try to remember something else for me.”

“What’s that?” Geralt asked.

Yennefer did not answer immediately, instead pushing herself back further onto the bed, turning to lay down on the pillow beside her husband and slipping her dainty foot between his bruised legs. Taking his scruffy face in her palm, she stared at him for a long while in silence, her eyes meeting his as her thumb trailed tenderly across his silvery beard. “Should you ever take another contract which I have advised you against, I will not give the monsters time to kill you,” she told him. “Because I will kill you myself. Do I make myself clear, dear?”

Geralt grinned. “Crystal,” he answered, taking her hand from his face and bringing it to his lips to kiss it.

Yennefer nodded, satisfied. “Good,” she said. “So what was it, then?”

“Hm?” Geralt asked, distracted by her dainty fingers. He kissed them again, before pulling her hand a bit further towards him to kiss the inside of her slender wrist.

“The monster,” Yennefer answered, not bothering to fight him as he trailed soft kisses up her arm, though her expression did not change, even as his beard tickled against her porcelain skin. “The one that nearly did you in.”

“Vampire,” Geralt said, simply, kissing the crook of her arm.

Yennefer frowned, pushing a lock of unruly white hair away from his face. “I find that hard to believe,” she told him. “You’ve fought vampires before and never had an issue. I find it difficult to think a fleder or ekimmara could knock you down so efficiently.”

“Wasn’t either of those,” Geralt answered, kissing her shoulder. “No idea what it was. Smelled like a bruxa, but… definitely wasn’t. Some kind of subclass of higher vampire.” He kissed her neck, before pausing, thoughtful, resting his chin against her shoulder. “Never seen one before in my life,” he added, sliding a hand around her back to hold her close. He moved his knee over her milky thigh, and she huffed, resting her head against his bandaged shoulder.

“How well-versed are you in vampires?” Yennefer asked.

Geralt paused, before making a face, unsure. “Not as well as I’d like to be,” he admitted after a moment. “Definitely want to know what the hell this one was. Need to be prepared in case I run into one like it again.” Taking in a deep breath, he filled his lungs with Yennefer’s sweet, floral scent, before letting it out again in a long, low sigh, burying his face in his wife’s soft hair. “Think I’ll write to Regis,” he said. “See if he can help me identify it.”

“You’re still in contact with Regis?” Yennefer asked, looking up at him.

Geralt nodded, brushing a hand over her silky raven locks. “Yeah,” he answered. “Met back up with him here in Toussaint, actually. Been corresponding back and forth a little. Not as much recently.” Kissing her forehead, he closed his weary eyes, allowing his lips to rest against her warm skin. “He’s been busy lately, trying to help another acquaintance,” he added after a moment. “Vampire friend of his. Helped him out, too. Told you about that, I think.”

“Hm,” Yennefer answered, lifting her head to kiss her husband’s lips. “I don’t know why that surprises me. I suppose it doesn’t. You always did make unusual bedfellows.”

Geralt hummed as he kissed Yennefer back, the sound a low vibrato in his bandaged throat, feeling the softness of her lips against his as he pulled her in, never wanting to let her go. The conversation had lightened with the topic of Regis, but the pain in his body still reminded him how close he had come to death, and how short his life seemed, looking back on the time he had been given to spend with Yennefer. He wanted to hold her warmth against him until the two of them became one, a singular entity, but she was so slender in his calloused hands, so lithe and featherlight in his grasp, her hands and feet so dainty and small, that he feared he might lose her if he ever let go. He had nearly lost her too many times before, and this last time had come far too close for his liking – but he was alive now, and so was she, and that was all that mattered right now.

Geralt kissed his wife again, deeper and more desperately than before, tangling his fingers in her thick, dark hair – until a sudden thought occurred to him, and he pulled his mouth away, breathing heavily as he rested his forehead against hers, hearing his heartbeat in his ears. He had not even realized he had forgotten to breathe, too focused on wanting to be with Yennefer, but he swallowed hard, wetting his lips, before taking in another deep breath, preparing to say words he knew would end the precious moment. “Can’t put off seeing Ciri anymore,” he said, speaking softly and shaking his head. “Starting to think… you might be right. Someone was definitely setting me up with those contracts.”

“You don’t say,” Yennefer answered, sarcastically.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, looking up to meet her eyes. “Sorry, Yen. Should’ve listened sooner. Guess I just didn’t think I was worth killing anymore.” Letting out another sigh, he kissed her cheek, before rolling onto his back again, staring at the ceiling and blinking slowly as he turned his thoughts over in his tired mind. “Couldn’t figure out why they would bother,” he added after a moment. “I’m retired now. Not doing anybody any harm.”

“You’ve had a long career, Geralt,” Yennefer pointed out, nestling her head against his bandaged shoulder. He stifled a hiss as she pressed against one of his bruises, draping his arm around her and pulling her in closer to his chest. “It’s possible someone saw an opportunity to get rid of you when they knew you’d least expect it.”

Geralt shrugged, running his fingers absentmindedly through Yennefer’s silky hair. “Maybe,” he agreed. “Should’ve been more wary. Guess I got blindsided by how much that… girl reminded me of Ciri.” At this, Yennefer looked up, seeming surprised, and even Geralt had to pause a moment as he realized the connection. He had wondered what it was about Rosie that always gave him such strange pause, and he could not deny, now that the thought had revealed itself, just how much she reminded him of his child surprise – the girl who had threatened to bite him as a child, the girl who had warmed her cold feet on him on winter mornings; the girl whose response to a powerful mage’s attempt on her life was to spite him with a middle finger, and whose answer to an eternal elven winter was to shove snowballs down her foster father’s back. Ciri had come from unusual family circumstances as well, he remembered, and despite his best efforts throughout her life, she too had found herself far too often alone in her tender youth.

“Whoever set me up probably did that on purpose,” Geralt added after another moment, his silver brow furrowing. “Picking a blonde girl with green eyes to deliver their contracts. Counted on me not being able to say no.”

“Hm,” Yennefer answered, her tone notably stiffer. “I would’ve called her a redhead with blue eyes, personally. Not very much like Ciri at all. A bit of an insult to compare them, don’t you think?” Geralt frowned, but said nothing in response, knowing full well why Yennefer took issue with mention of the girl – still, the topic had been relevant at the time, and he found no reason to regret having brought it up. Sitting up again, Yennefer stretched her dainty legs, before bending over to kiss her husband’s cheek, pausing a moment as she did so to run her thumb across his scruffy, overgrown beard. “Need to trim that,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. Then, getting out of bed again, she stretched, brushing her hair back, before turning to look towards her husband again.

“Get some rest,” she told him, firmly. “We’ll talk more about things once you’ve healed.”

“Need a new silver sword,” Geralt put in, quickly, pointing at her before she could leave. “Has to be made by Lazare Lafargue. He’s the only one who can make it right.”

Yennefer sighed at his request, propping her hands on her shapely hips. “I’ll tell Barnabas-Basil,” she agreed, before scoffing and adding, “You’re as finicky about your swords as I am about my delicates.”

“Important to get the right tool for the job,” Geralt answered, smirking across at his wife.

Yennefer stared at him at this, saying nothing for a moment, allowing ample time for the weight of her displeasure to sink in. “Charming,” she finally told him. “I’ll remember that next time you’re close to death.”

“Love you too,” Geralt answered, smiling, closing his eyes and laying back against his pillows again, content.

* * *

The Swallow had done a commendable job in healing Geralt’s wounds over the course of the first week, and by the end of the second, he could barely tell he had been injured at all in the places where Shani had stitched him up. The marks left by the vampire’s fangs had been resistant to medicine, witcher or human, but even they had eventually scarred over with his advanced healing, leaving only small, puncture-shaped discs of smooth tissue to remind him of his near-brush with death. During his first week of bedrest, at Yennefer’s insistence, he had written a letter to Ciri, explaining that he was simply taking his time in gathering supplies for his journey; he had objected to the letter, arguing that Ciri would easily see through the lie, but Yennefer had been adamant, claiming that it was for the empress’ own good to be kept in the dark.

“You could always portal me there,” Geralt had suggested, blowing on the finished letter to dry it. “Save everyone a lot of time and frustration.”

“I could,” Yennefer had answered, distractedly stroking the wings of the black kestrel. It had still not disappeared, despite having returned with Ciri’s previous letter more than a week prior – instead, it had since made a home for itself in one of the garden trees, and made sharp shrieking noises at the witcher whenever he happened to pass beneath it. The bird stared at him across the room now as it waited, nestled down against Yennefer’s wrist as she scratched idly under its feathered chin. “But who would I be if I deprived you the chance to ignore our sensible health advice?”

Geralt grunted at her answer, folding the letter into thirds, before handing it over to the sorceress to seal. The kestrel had squawked as it felt the letter being wrapped around its leg, before Yennefer lifted it to the open window, allowing it to take off into the sunshine with Ciri’s note in tow. Geralt’s next letter had been to Regis, though he had taken his time in writing this one, wanting to remember every part of his encounter before sending his query off to his friend. The letter, once written, had been succinct, wishing Regis and Dettlaff well, before describing the vampire in the warehouse in full detail, making sure to include its human name, Mirik, in case that carried any significance. He had signed off with an invitation for Regis to visit the vineyard if he was ever in the area, before pressing the letter with a clumsy wax seal, wondering how Yennefer always managed to keep hers so neat.

The black kestrel in its garden tree opened a sleepy yellow eye as Geralt approached, staring down at him suspiciously as he rested his hands on his hips. The witcher had no idea how to speak to magical creatures, unsure if they possessed the same intelligence as their masters, but he cleared his throat as he squinted at the ruffled bird, before holding up the letter so it could take a look. “Come down,” he coaxed the raptor, causing it to open its second curious eye. “Got a letter here. Need you to deliver it.”

The kestrel burbled at the command, and then trilled, before squatting down deeper in its makeshift nest, pulling its head into its feathery neck as it stared at the witcher, two yellow dots against a rumpled sea of black. “You’re supposed to be in bed,” the kestrel squawked, its voice like crackling firewood.

Geralt sighed, letting his arm fall back to his side. “Forgot you things talked,” he said, shoving the letter in his pocket. “Leave it to Yen to conjure a _bird_ to scold me when she’s not around.”

“Not conjured for you,” the kestrel retorted, sharply. “Conjured for Ciri.” Its angled head popped up like a cork, and it cocked a yellow eye at him, staring down at him, knowingly. “You had a bird,” it told him, curtly. “You let him go. I belong to Ciri.”

Geralt frowned at the explanation. “You mean I have to have Yen conjure up a whole new bird just to deliver a letter to Regis?” he asked, incredulous.

“No,” Yennefer answered, appearing from behind him, and Geralt turned with a start, so focused on his conversation with the bird he had not even heard his wife approach. “I just need to give it a different command. It’s a simple spell, as I told you before. No complex free will. Unless I give it different instructions, it remains loyal to whoever it was originally conjured for.” Stepping in front of him, she lifted a hand towards the tree, and the kestrel instantly flew down from its perch, alighting on her wrist with a high-pitched squeak before looking up at the witcher again with a piercing stare. Pulling her arm in, Yennefer petted the bird on its sleek head, turning to face her husband. “It makes things simpler to create these birds with a single directive,” she explained. “I seldom use the same bird twice. Most birds don’t return after delivering their missives. This one just seems to like to stick around.”

“It certainly likes _you_,” Geralt agreed, dryly, staring back at the bird. Then, pulling the letter from his pocket again, he held it out to Yennefer instead. “Can you send this to Regis?” he asked. “It’s the one I told you about. Asking about the vampire.”

Yennefer took the letter with a faint frown, turning it over between her slender fingers to examine the wax seal he had attempted. Then, turning her attention to the kestrel again, she whispered something to it that Geralt could not hear, before kissing the bird gently on its hooked beak, producing a soft aura of shimmering blue light around the kestrel’s head as her lips departed its feathered face. The kestrel peeped, its pupils growing wide, and as Yennefer held up the letter again, it took it eagerly in its beak this time, holding it securely as it took off into the sky again, heading in the direction of what Geralt assumed was wherever Regis was staying. For what Yennefer touted as such a simple spell, it amazed him how the birds always knew exactly where to find their letters’ recipients – magic worked in mysterious ways, of course, but he had to wonder if there was some sort of scrying component that went into the conjuration of the kestrels, and if perhaps they were a bit more complex than the sorceress was willing to let on.

The kestrel did not return again until nearly his entire two weeks of recovery had ended, and when it did, it carried no return letter from Regis, as the witcher had hoped it might. He only knew the bird had returned when he happened to pass beneath its garden tree, and had heard the familiar protest of his presence coming from the branch where he knew it to stay. He had paused at the noise, turning to squint up at the bird, hoping for some small hint of correspondence from the vampire, but the kestrel had only stared back at him with wide eyes, before telling him in a low warble, “You need a haircut.”

* * *

Barnabas-Basil and the stablehands had worked hard to put together Geralt’s supplies for Vizima while he had been recovering, and by the time he was ready to head out, he found he had very little left to worry about. His new set of armour had been laid out for him to wear, and beside it, the new silver sword he had requested, perfectly balanced and masterfully designed by Lafargue, just as he had asked. Geralt gave the sword a swing to test its weight, and found it to be highly satisfactory, the polished blade whistling through the air at his side like a falcon in dive as he twirled it. He grinned at the craftsmanship, starting to set the weapon down again, before a sudden glint from a nearby window caught the flat of the blade, illuminating a finely-printed script along its length he had not noticed earlier. It was an inscription in the Elder tongue, masterfully engraved, and clearly chosen by Yennefer when she had put in the order for the sword.

“_Cáemm adref diel_,” Geralt read aloud, feeling his heart swell at the message. “‘Come home safely.’ I will, Yen. I promise.”

His new armour was attractive, albeit a bit heavier than his last few ensembles, but he supposed with how near he had recently come to death, a bit of added weight for the sake of padding could only do him good. The new suit was made of polished leather, Zerrikanian camel leather from the look of it, with insewn maille panels protecting his most vulnerable parts and lamellar scaling along the sides of his cuirass, greaves, and across the layered pauldrons that buckled down nearly to his elbows. The knuckles of his leather gloves were studded for close combat, with the outer lengths lined with a row of silver spikes, a resourceful detail that reminded him strongly of the sleeves of Eskel’s armour – useful in a pinch to help fight off an unexpected bite from a monster.

Geralt checked his appearance in Yennefer’s vanity-glass, straightening the collar of his armour to hide the still-fading fang-scars on his neck, before turning to head next for the clinic, not wanting to forget to talk to Shani before he left. Shani was lounging in one of the clinic chaises when he arrived, balancing a book against her tucked-up thighs, and sucking on a strawberry she had apparently fished from a bowl of them she had set out on the nearby side-table. She was dressed again in one of Geralt’s loose shirts, the sleeves rolled up to give movement to her slender arms, and he found himself pausing as he noticed that her hair was tied back in a short ponytail, just long enough to be swept off her neck.

He realized, in all the years he had known her, he had never seen Shani with anything but short hair – a practical choice for a woman of her occupation, but a detail he had strangely never thought of as something that would change. That was foolish, of course – hair grew, sometimes wildly, a fact he had learned during stints on the road where he came home looking more like a lion than a wolf – but it still surprised him to see Shani with longer hair, and it took him a moment to shake the strangeness of it enough to return to reality.

Shani looked up as he approached, not bothering to close her book as she pulled her knees in tighter, making room for Geralt to sit at her feet on the far end of the fainting-couch. Geralt smirked as he took in the leisurely scene – the pile of strawberry stems on a napkin on the table, the stack of half-read books on the floor – before looking up at the doctor again with a fond huff. “Busy day?” he guessed.

Shani chuckled around the strawberry, reaching up to bite off the half she had been sucking on. “So busy,” she agreed. “I’ve got this one unruly patient… can’t seem to get him to do anything I tell him.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered. “Sounds like a real asshole.”

“I can’t argue that,” Shani admitted, shrugging and closing her book. “Unfortunately, I’m carrying his child, so I’m stuck with him. At least for the time being.” Setting the book on the floor with the others, she finished her strawberry, discarding the stem on the napkin, before starting to sit up, frowning a bit as she leveraged her weight against the back of the chaise. She huffed as she finally righted herself, stretching out her bare feet across the floor, before letting out a soft, frustrated moan as she stared down at them, flexing her toes. “My shoes are getting tight,” she commented, more to herself than the witcher, causing Geralt to look up in interest at the observation.

Geralt frowned, unsure what he was supposed to say to that – he could offer to send Barnabas-Basil into town for a new pair, he thought – but the opportunity to react was quickly ended as Shani looked up again, tucking her feet under the couch as she stared up at him in interest. “Did you come to tell me something?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m sure you didn’t come to hear me talk about my womanly woes.”

“Headed to Vizima,” Geralt answered, deciding to drop the subject of shoes. His next thought had been to offer her a pair of his boots, but the idea of her stomping around in his unwieldy riding-shoes was enough to put that thought quickly to rest. “Figure Ciri’s waited long enough. Probably getting worried about me at this point.”

Shani nodded, listening attentively. “I wondered when you might head out to see her,” she admitted. “Truth be told, it seems a little strange you waited this long to do it.”

“Had other things to do,” Geralt answered, shrugging.

Shani hummed, looking across the clinic towards the filling bookshelves. “I guess,” she agreed. “Still seems strange.” Then, reaching across to the strawberry bowl, she picked out a fruit, taking a bite, before pausing to stare at a spot on the floor, chewing slowly as she considered her thoughts. “Geralt,” she said after a moment, slowly, causing him to look up again, attentive. “Have you noticed there’s been a sort of… shift, lately? I’m not sure if that’s the right word for it, but… hmm.” She frowned, trailing off, before distractedly finishing the last of her strawberry, setting the stem aside and shaking her head with a soft sigh. “I’m not really sure what I’m trying to ask,” she admitted, not waiting for his answer. “Things have just felt… not quite right, lately. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s just me.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, glad to have been spared the subject. “They do say pregnancy can mess with your head.”

Shani looked up at the dismissive comment, her expression a mix of humour and incredulity. “Some people might call that kind of talk rude,” she told him, causing Geralt to look over again, his cat eyes wide. “_Never_ call a pregnant woman crazy, Geralt.”

“Sorry,” Geralt grunted. “Didn’t mean it like that.”

Shani chuckled at his fumbling, reaching over to rest a reassuring hand on his knee, and Geralt quickly picked it up, running his gloved thumb over her dainty fingers. It was difficult to learn new things at his age, but Shani was a blessedly patient teacher, and he let out a soft sigh at the thought of how much he still had to learn before their child was born. Noticing his anxiety, Shani moved a bit closer to him, resting her head against his shoulder as she stared at their hands entwined in his lap. “What do you think of Julian?” she asked after a pause, breaking the thoughtful silence.

Geralt frowned, before finally shrugging, resting his chin against the doctor’s soft hair. “He’s a good friend,” he answered after a moment. “Kind of a mess at times.”

“No, not Dandelion,” Shani told him, shaking her head and letting out a small, amused huff. “I mean the _name_, Julian. What do you think of Julian? If the baby is a boy, that is.”

“Hate it,” Geralt answered, bluntly.

Shani gave a sharp laugh, moving her free hand to cover her mouth. “Well that’s succinct,” she returned, still giggling. “Guess that’s a ‘no’ on Julian, then.”

“Yeah,” Geralt grunted, his brow furrowing at the thought. “If we name the kid after Dandelion, he’ll never let me live it down. Nobody should have to deal with that.”

“Alright, alright,” Shani conceded, nodding. “I see your point. Not Julian, then.”

Geralt hummed in response, looking down at their hands again, staring at them a moment longer before taking another breath. “Like the name Shani,” he said, causing Shani to look up in surprise. “If it’s a girl.”

Shani faltered, seeming a bit confused. “I’m not going to name my daughter after myself,” she finally said, shaking her head. “That’s just… not something people do. At least, not usually.”

Geralt shrugged, folding his second hand over hers in his lap. “Men name their sons after themselves all the time,” he pointed out. “Don’t see why women shouldn’t. Doesn’t seem fair.”

Shani paused at his logic, staring at Geralt for a moment, before a gentle smile began to lift the corners of her lips. “You make a good point,” she told him, softly. “But I think we should keep looking. There’s bound to be a perfect name out there we can both agree on.” Leaning in again, she kissed his scruffy cheek, before sitting back against the couch and resting her hand across her stomach with a tired sigh. “This is only week eighteen,” she said, stretching her aching legs again. “Hard to believe time moves so slowly. Though it’ll probably be around… week twenty-two when you get back. Unless you decide to stay in Vizima awhile.”

“Week twenty-two of what?” Geralt asked, frowning over at her.

Shani smiled, running her hand over her subtle bump, and Geralt blanched, feeling suddenly very foolish for asking. In truth, he had never considered the actual math, but he now realized he had no idea how he would have asked, even if he had wanted to. It was lucky she had volunteered the information of her own accord, though now he could not help wondering what it actually meant – unfortunately, it seemed bizarre to him to simply ask to see a pregnant woman’s stomach, even if the woman was a dear friend and he, himself, was the baby’s father. It took him a moment to realize Shani was staring at him as he thought, her pretty brow furrowed as she watched his expression, and he quickly looked away, not wanting to seem rude, unsure how long she had been observing him for a reaction.

He hated how clueless he was about this – how completely helpless he felt as a grown, learned man – but he realized it was not his fault, as he had been told all his life he would have no reason to know these things. He pursed his lips as he dug for a response, trying to think of anything useful to say, but before he could find it, he felt Shani’s hand on his, pulling off his glove and guiding his now-bare hand to rest on her stomach. Geralt froze as his hand made contact, every muscle in his body tensing with uncertainty, but after another moment, he began to relax, feeling the warmth of Shani’s palm against the back of his hand.

He could feel the rhythm of her lungs as she breathed, the steady tempo of her heart in her chest, and he swallowed hard as he began to move his hand across her stomach, slowly taking in the shape hidden beneath her spacious shirt. “It’ll probably be week twenty before it starts kicking,” Shani said after a moment, speaking softly as she watched him. “I admit I’m looking forward to that. Even if it does seem a little strange.”

Geralt did not look up as Shani spoke, too fixated on his hand to hear her, but after a moment, he appeared to register her voice, and he raised his head, blinking a few times, still dazed. A few seconds later, he returned to reality, and he retrieved his hand, letting out a short breath as he felt it still trembling with residual nerves. He nodded as Shani handed back his glove, taking it and starting to put it on. “Thanks,” he said, speaking softly, trying to keep from fumbling as he slid it on over his shaking hand.

Shani nodded back with an understanding smile, before stretching out comfortably over the couch again, laying down against her pillow and picking up her book from where she had set it down on the floor. Geralt glanced up at the book cover, still distracted, before he paused, suddenly recognizing the emblazoned spine, with its familiar image of a golden fern etched into the olive binding. Reaching hesitantly across the couch, he touched the book’s cover, giving his medallion a moment to register – but it gave no shudder as his fingers brushed the tome this time, and he frowned, realizing it was likely just an ordinary book after all.

Shani lowered the book as she felt Geralt touch it, staring at him curiously over the top, but he only shook his head, retrieving his hand to his lap. “Nothing,” he assured her. “Just checking something.”

“You can read it if you want,” Shani offered, smirking.

Geralt shook his head again. “No time,” he said. “Need to head out. Behind enough as it is.”

Shani nodded, understanding, before lifting a hand, indicating for Geralt to lean in closer. He did as he was asked, and she reached out, pulling gently on his sword-strap to bring him in for a soft kiss on his cheek. “Please take care of yourself,” she told him, brushing a stray lock of white hair away from his eyes. “I always worry about you whenever you leave. And Yennefer worries too. I know because she told me. She’d do anything if it meant your happiness.” She paused, considering, before smiling and adding, “Even if she’d sometimes have you believe she’d rather portal you into the ocean than put up with you.”

Geralt grunted, smirking at the comment. “She’s done that before,” he confessed. “I deserved it.” Then, leaning in again, he pressed a kiss to Shani’s forehead, before pushing himself up from the couch and starting to head for the door. “Oh,” he said, turning back suddenly, remembering something. “If my friend Regis stops by while I’m away… don’t… tell him you’re pregnant. He has a… _thing_, about babies.”

“Regis, the barber?” Shani asked, raising a curious brow. “Julian told me a bit about him. What’s his distaste for babies?”

“‘Distaste’ isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” Geralt admitted, bleakly, hoping to be as vague as possible. “I’d just… avoid bringing up the topic, if you can.” Shani frowned, still seeming confused by the suggestion, but nodded in agreement, regardless. Geralt nodded back, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. “Good,” he said. “I’ll be back in a month or so. Don’t let Yen drive you crazy in the meantime.”

“Give Ciri my love,” Shani called back, catching him just as he stepped out the door.


	9. Cinquefoil

The road to Vizima had changed very little from the last time Geralt had travelled it; in fact, the only thing that had changed in that time, as far as he could tell, was himself. Even with his witcher’s constitution, he found himself needing nearly-nightly respites from the trail, small breaks to offer his aching back and rear some relief from the wear of the saddle. Roach, too, had complained the first few days they had spent riding hard towards the Nilfgaardian province, but by the fourth day of journeying, her blustering had quieted, and she seemed to be enjoying the change of scenery.

Geralt had charted his trip before heading out, plotting a path which allowed him to circumvent major landmarks, avoiding such uncertainties as the militant mining town of Belhaven and the authoritarian Riedbrune in the Slopes. Even with his masterful navigating, however, it had proven impossible to bypass the Yaruga, and it had taken a steep parting of coin to secure passage across as he continued his journey north. He had pushed Roach hard to get through Sodden in a day, not wanting to linger near such tragedy longer than necessary, and he had made a point of avoiding the druidic fortress of Mayena, not wanting to have anything to do with Visenna or her kind. He had taken a much-needed night’s stay in Maribor, knowing Triss to have dealings with its people and so trusting little trouble to come from his stay, but he had barely spoken to anyone while there, only requesting a warm bath and a room out of the rain before continuing on his way.

It was two weeks after leaving his doorstep that he finally spotted the signpost for Vizima, and he snapped Roach’s reigns, squeezing her sides and barking a command for her to speed up the last length to their destination. The armour of the guards standing watch at the palace gleamed beetle-black in the morning sun, the golden trim and Nilfgaardian emblems on their breastplates glinting as they caught the watery light. One of the guards, a sturdy man in a winged helmet, stepped assuredly out of formation as Geralt drew Roach to a halt in front of them, watching as the witcher dismounted, before taking his horse’s reigns to lead her forward.

The guard frowned as he looked Geralt over, and then Roach, before his dark eyes moved to the swords on Geralt’s back, and he made a face, his thin lip twisting as he looked up into the traveller’s cat-like eyes again. “Her ladyship the Empress of Nilfgaard is not entertaining unscheduled visitors,” he announced, his voice thick with a Nilfgaardian accent. “She is awaiting expected company. We have strict orders to turn away drifters and petition-seekers.”

Geralt frowned at the command, tightening his grip on Roach’s reigns as the mare blustered behind him. “Do I look like a petition-seeker?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

The guard narrowed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, and Geralt could feel his jaw clench at the unsubtle implication. He had been travelling for two weeks straight at that point, with only the armour on his back to wear, needing all the room in Roach’s saddle-bags for his bedroll, cooking supplies, and provisions. He had spent his nights sleeping out under the stars, bathing in rivers where he could find them, and in taverns only on the rare occasion that he knew he would find no delay to his journey. He knew perfectly well what he looked and smelled like after two weeks spent in the saddle, but the fact that this guard thought that meant he was some kind of vagrant was a bit more than he was willing to put up with.

“I’m sorry,” the guard finally said, not sounding sorry at all. “But I simply cannot let you through to see the Empress today. She is expecting important company, you see. We aren’t allowed to let anyone else through.”

“Right,” Geralt answered, nodding in understanding. “And what company is her majesty expecting?”

The guard lifted his head, cocking back the wings of his helmet. “Her majesty Empress Cirilla is expecting a visit from her friend, the witcher, Geralt of Rivia,” he answered.

“A witcher?” Geralt asked, raising his brows. “Interesting. And what do witchers look like, exactly?”

“Like mutants, I’d wager,” the guard answered, standing his ground. “They’ve viper eyes and carry two swords, I’m told. Differing tales say different things, of course, but they’re usually described as monstrous.” He paused as he said this, as if something had just occurred to him, before his dark eyes began to slowly widen. Then, as Geralt watched, his gaze began to move again, first to the swords on Geralt’s back, and then to his wolf medallion, until finally coming to rest on his yellow eyes, the last, most obvious piece of the puzzle. Geralt could see the man physically blanche beneath the sweltering weight of his helmet, and the guard quickly took a few steps back, clearing the way for Geralt and his steed to pass.

“Master witcher,” the guard stammered, mortified. “I apologize, sir. Please, go ahead. Empress Cirilla has been eagerly waiting your arrival.”

Geralt nodded, letting out a grunt, wondering how long it would take before someone recognized him – it had been almost half a year since the last time he had visited the palace, and he supposed the patrols were traded out regularly enough that it was plausible no one there would know him on sight. Giving a soft tug on Roach’s reigns, he pulled her forward, past the leader of the guards, before handing her off to one of his subordinates, smirking at the man’s startled expression. “She needs a bath,” he told the guard. “Doesn’t like strangers touching her, so watch your hands. I expect my things to be where I left them when I come back.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard stammered, nervously.

Geralt grinned at the show of respect, running a last fond hand over Roach’s mane, before turning to head inside the palace, eager to see Ciri after so long spent on the road.

* * *

The palace at Vizima was just as Geralt remembered it, with its high, vaulted ceilings and diamond-patterned marble floors, with tapestries and carpets draped on every visible surface bearing the insignia and colours of Nilfgaard. Black-clad guardsmen flanked every door he passed through, turning fleeting, disapproving glances to his dirt-stained armour and travel-worn smell, but they said nothing to him as he wandered from room to room, searching for where Ciri could be at this time of day.

He paused as he passed by the corridor leading to Yennefer’s room, the place where he had first sat down to talk with her about Ciri’s fate – despite his eagerness to see the empress, he found himself feeling suddenly curious, and he turned, diverting his path, figuring it could do little harm to take a quick look inside. The room had changed very little from the last time he had been in there with Yennefer: the grated brazier lay empty and cold, the books she had been studying still sitting open on the desk. A picture of Ciri she had set out for Geralt, one of many, still lay untouched beside the tomes, and he picked it up, staring at the likeness, remembering how strange it had seemed at the time to think of his daughter as fully grown.

As he stared at the picture, wondering where the time had gone, he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps approaching quickly from behind him, before he felt something solid collide with him, nearly knocking the wind from him as it latched on with an iron grip. Looking down to his chest, he saw with a burst of warmth that two slender arms had wrapped themselves around his torso, squeezing him tightly, as something soft – a face, from the height of it – pressed itself firmly into his back. Geralt recognized immediately the tiny hands and freckled forearms, and he smiled as his heart gave a grateful leap, before dropping the paper to turn around and embrace Ciri in person.

Picking the empress up in a warm bear hug, Geralt spun her around, ecstatic to see her again, and she laughed out loud as she felt her feet leave the ground, wrapping her arms around his neck like a happy child. “I missed you so much, Geralt!” Ciri exclaimed, kissing his cheeks until he felt himself blush. “Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you! You don’t know how dreadful it is without you!”

“Not that bad,” Geralt joked, setting her down again gently. “Pretty nice house to be miserable in.”

“This palace is the _worst_ of it!” Ciri exclaimed, her hands never leaving his shoulders, seeming unwilling to let go just yet. “It’s so _boring_ here, Geralt! Not one single monster. Not even a rat, it’s so unbearably clean!” Geralt laughed at her frustration, kissing the top of her head, before pulling her in again for another warm hug. Ciri squeezed him back tightly, before she suddenly coughed, letting out a sound of disgust as she pulled back again. “Gods, Geralt!” she exclaimed, wrinkling her freckled nose. “When was the last time you took a proper bath? Your armour smells like you’ve rolled in something dead!”

“Possible,” Geralt answered, looking down at his armour. “Dunno what was on the forest floor.”

“Well, you’re getting a bath now,” Ciri announced, before taking his hand and starting to lead him in another familiar direction. He knew where she was taking him – to the dressing-room where he had first been prepped for his meeting with Yennefer all those months ago, where a bevy of court ladies had washed him while Emhyr’s right-hand general interrogated him on his reappearance in White Orchard. He remembered that bath distinctly, not because of the lovely ladies washing him, but rather because of how much he had enjoyed the oils and scrubs they had used, and he took a deep breath in as he was pulled along behind his daughter, already looking forward to the scented water and dissolving bath-salts the palace would undoubtedly provide.

They had only reached the second hall or so leading towards the dressing-room, however, when they found their path suddenly blocked, held up by a shapeless, pallid man draped in an ensemble of Nilfgaard’s regalia. Voorhis’ blue lips twisted in a strange expression as he took in the scene before him, his hands tucked perceptively behind his back, before he turned his watery gaze to Ciri, causing her to grip Geralt’s hand a bit tighter as he zeroed in on her. “Your majesty,” Voorhis drawled, his voice cold and slick, like oil. “I’ve been looking for you. You wandered off before you could finish going over the new proposals your father sent over from Nilfgaard.”

Voorhis paused, before looking up at Geralt next, his gaze trailing slowly, as if unconcerned with wasting the witcher’s time. “I believe he had some ideas for how we can improve things for those living in Nilfgaard’s provinces,” he continued, staring at Geralt as he spoke, though he was clearly still addressing Ciri. Geralt frowned at the act, making no attempt to hide his expression, earning only a thin, grim smile from Voorhis in return. “He always did have his peoples’ best interests at heart,” Voorhis added. “Always looking out for his fellow man.”

“Didn’t know you had a sense of humour, Voorhis,” Geralt told him, refusing to drop his gaze from the general’s first. “Figured you were born without it. Like some people are born without fingers and toes.”

“My fingers and toes are all intact, witcher,” Voorhis returned, coldly. “Thank you.” Then, turning his gaze to Ciri again, he raised a hand, indicating for her to follow him. “Your guest will be taken where he needs to go,” he told the empress, still speaking painfully slowly. “I’m sure he can bathe and dress himself. Despite evidence to the contrary.” As Voorhis continued speaking, Geralt could hear the padded falls of booted feet behind him, and when he turned, it was to see two servants standing in wait for him to join them. They seemed surprised to have drawn his attention, but did not seem fearful of the witcher himself, having likely been warned of what to expect when Ciri’s company came to call.

Geralt frowned at the servants, before looking back to Voorhis, having no doubt the general knew exactly what he was doing in separating him from Ciri. Still, he said nothing, not wanting to cause trouble, only giving Ciri’s hand one last reassuring squeeze before letting go, taking a step back to allow her to go with Voorhis unchallenged. “Thank you, witcher,” Voorhis smirked, taking a step towards Ciri and coaxing her forward to join him. “Come now, your majesty. You have important work to do.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Ciri called back to Geralt, flinching a bit as Voorhis put his hand on her shoulder, starting to lead her out. “I won’t be long – we’ll still have time to visit, I promise!”

“Don’t worry about me,” Geralt assured her, taking another step back towards the servants. Then, turning to face them again, he nodded, indicating for them to lead the way.

* * *

The hot bath-water was welcome and refreshing against Geralt’s weary skin, and he let out a long sigh, sinking down into the basin and allowing his arms to drape luxuriously over the sides. It had been a long while since he had been able to take an extravagant bath like this, and he gave a low hum, stretching his legs to the edge of the tub and allowing his tired body time to soak. As much as he sometimes missed life on the Path, one of the many things he appreciated about Corvo Bianco was the ability to draw up a bath like this whenever he pleased, without the strange and unpleasant looks such requests sometimes drew from judgemental innkeeps. It was difficult to find a good bath on the road, let alone a good heated bath, but Yennefer had long ago perfected a spell for making the process nearly instantaneous whenever she was around.

Thankfully, she had grown a bit more charitable in her methods for disposing of his bathwater once he was done; these days, she had taken to using the water to hydrate the wildflowers growing on the hillock outside the manor gates, which Geralt had to admit was a sight better than her old method of watering whatever unfortunate passer-by happened to be near their window whenever he finished his soak. Despite her newfound resourcefulness, however, Yennefer insisted on only using fresh water on the actual property’s plants, not wanting her garden to be soiled with runoff from sweat, soap, and monster entrails. To her credit, it had not escaped Geralt’s notice that a few hillside flowers had indeed begun to grow in strange colours since she began dumping his bathwater there, though he had to wonder if that was due to the monster blood, or the magic she used in transporting it there.

Geralt smiled as he thought of Yennefer, wondering what she was doing while he was away in Vizima – but his moment of peaceful solitude did not last long as the doors to the dressing-room swung suddenly open with a _bang_, causing him to jump nearly out of his skin as a slim figure came rushing in. He sat up quickly in the tub at the intrusion, causing hot bath-water to slosh over the side, but Ciri did not even seem to notice as she came to kneel eagerly beside the basin. “Finally!” she breathed, beaming excitedly up at the witcher. “At last, we’re alone and we can talk! I thought Voorhis would _never_ let me go.”

“Ciri,” Geralt growled, grabbing the first thing he could reach – the scrub-brush sitting by the edge of the tub – and using it to cover the space between his legs. The scrub-brush did little to hide anything, and he quickly covered the rest with his hand, making a face as he frowned up at his ward. “You can’t just come in here like that,” he told her, feeling a hot blush start to flood his face and shoulders as he spoke. “Gotta knock first. Give me a little privacy.” Ciri scoffed, seeming resistant, but scooted back a few paces from the tub, folding her legs in a crisscross and stashing her hands in her lap like an impatient child. Geralt shook his head. “Further back than that,” he told her. “Behind the screen where you can’t see anything. Go.”

“I can’t see anything from here,” Ciri argued, scrunching her freckled nose in protest. “Not that it matters. Everyone in the Continent has seen your naked arse.”

“Everyone but you,” Geralt returned, lifting a dripping arm to point to the screen at the far end of the dressing-room. “Go.”

Ciri’s frown deepened at the instruction, her young face twisting in a look of frustration, but did as she was told, getting up and moving across the dressing-room to sit against the changing-screen, facing the tub. Geralt sighed as he watched her settle in, folding her arms in stubborn dissent, before deciding she was far enough away that she was in no danger of seeing anything while he was still in the tub. Setting the scrub-brush by the edge of the basin again, he reached over the side, picking up one of the provided bathing-oils, before pouring it out into his palm and starting to rub his arms down, making sure to cover every bit of skin stained by dirt and sweat on the long road to Vizima.

Ciri chewed her lip, watching him in interest, before finally taking a sharp breath in. “You’ve gotten new scars since the last time I saw you,” she observed. “You didn’t tell me about that in your letters. You made no mention of fighting monsters at all. All this time I thought you were just sitting around Corvo Bianco, drinking wine and growing fat.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, rubbing warm water and scented oil into his aching thighs. “Thought you said you couldn’t see anything from the edge of the tub.”

“Forgive me for looking at your _neck_, Geralt,” Ciri scoffed, tossing her mousy hair in protest. “I didn’t realize you’d become such a prude. I’ll remember to ask next time I seek to lay eyes on anything past your dainty ankles.”

Geralt snorted at the retort, continuing to wash himself, feeling increasingly more at ease the longer he traded familiar back-and-forth with his child surprise. “Fought a few,” he answered after a moment. “Didn’t want to worry you by telling you about them. No big deal.”

“That means it _was_ a big deal,” Ciri returned, quickly, sitting up straighter. “And Yennefer didn’t want you to tell me about them. Is that right?” She raised her brows expectantly, lifting her chin as she waited for some response, and Geralt paused, considering trying to lie to her again, before finally nodding, realizing there would be no point. “Ha,” Ciri smirked, settling back down again. “I _knew_ that was the case. So you’ll tell me about them now, won’t you? Since you’re already here, and there’s no chance of me trying to come to your rescue.”

Geralt grinned, picking up the scrub-brush, starting to scour ingrained dirt from his knuckles and nails. “I’ll tell you,” he agreed, nodding shortly. “But first I want to know what’s been going on with you. Your letters have been very vague. Purposefully, I’m sure.” Washing off his now-clean hands in the warm water, he reached again for the scented oil, rubbing more of it into his tired muscles as he allowed his body to soak in the tub. Making a sign under the water, he heated the bath again with a short flash of Igni, before folding his knees to sink his upper half into the tub up to his chin, allowing his sore back and neck to soak in the freshly heated water.

Ciri shrugged, making a face at the question. “I’m not sure what you want me to say,” she answered, honestly. “I’m empress of Nilfgaard. My days have mostly been filled with my duties. I’ve had a few meetings in the past months where various nobility have tried to marry me off for political reasons, but I’ve always managed to weasel out of them somehow.” She frowned at the thought, leaning back against the screen, stretching her slender legs in front of her in an effort to get more comfortable. “I’m lucky Nilfgaard has such pull,” she added after a moment. “Or I’d have been forced into a political union some time ago, I’m sure. Nilfgaard’s reputation precedes it in most parts of the Continent, and everyone seems to want a piece of its prestige.”

“Not surprising,” Geralt returned, closing his eyes as he continued to soak.

Ciri sighed. “I suppose,” she conceded. “It’s just strange to think that Nilfgaard was once the ruthless pursuer, and now seems to be the one being pursued. I suppose people have realized I’m not Emhyr, and they think they can take advantage of my youth and femininity to take Nilfgaard’s power for their own.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, amused by the thought. “Whoever tried that doesn’t know you very well.” Dipping his head under the warm water, he gave his hair a moment to steep, before finally coming up for air again, parting the wet white curtains so he could see.

Ciri huffed, similarly amused, crossing her arms over her slender ribcage. “Clearly,” she agreed, looking up at him again. “Clearly they don’t know I’m your daughter.”

Geralt smirked, pleased at the thought, but even more pleased with the phrasing she had chosen – it had not escaped him that she had called herself his daughter, while calling her biological father merely by his first name, Emhyr. Picking up a comb from beside the tub, he began to run it through his wet hair, gritting his teeth as he picked at the tangles, watching as dirt and small pieces of crumbled leaves began to fall from his hair into the scented water. He frowned as he stared down at the muddying bath, before a new thought occurred to him, and he suddenly stopped, trying to think of the most tactful way to begin asking what he needed to know.

“Speaking of… femininity,” he said, and immediately wished he had picked a better lead-in. Ciri looked up in surprise at the preface, but only raised a brow at the witcher, curious and amused. Geralt took a deep breath, now committed, before looking down from Ciri’s gaze as he began to comb his tangled hair again. “When you were… indisposed, at Kaer Morhen,” he said, speaking slowly, feeling heat rising to his face as he continued. “When you were… thirteen. And Triss scolded us, and told us that you were… bleeding, and it was…” He stopped, frowning, sucking his lips into a frustrated line as he tried to think of a delicate way to word his question. He was too old to be embarrassed by these topics – he was a witcher, a man of worldly experience – yet here he was, blushing like a handmaid over the thought of a normal female bodily function.

“Women who don’t have… glamour, or magic… they… do that all their lives,” he continued, still speaking haltingly. “They’re… _indisposed_, at times. And that’s something that happens regularly. …Right?” He paused another moment after finishing, before finally looking up again, prepared to see Ciri trying her best not to laugh at his ignorance – but her expression was gentle as he met her eyes, tickled but understanding, and he felt a bit of his humiliation fall away, happy to have gotten the worst of his uncomfortable questions off his chest.

Ciri took a deep breath as she considered his questions, her teeth skating pensively across her bottom lip, before she narrowed her eyes, trying to decide how best to answer, equally delicately. “Not _all_ their lives,” she finally returned, folding her hands thoughtfully in her lap. “Women with no magic usually only… become _indisposed_, at certain times each month, and only for as long as they’re capable of having children. Usually until their fortieth year or so.”

“Forty?” Geralt asked, raising his brows in surprise. “Longer than I expected. Makes sense, though.”

Ciri nodded, leaning back against the screen again. “I, myself still have months where I become… indisposed,” she continued after a moment, still treading carefully. “Triss would be glad to hear that, I’m sure. She worried that the food and training at Kaer Morhen might have harmed my reproductive ability, but I don’t think so. Even Yennefer says they didn’t do any lasting harm, and I trust her judgement.” She shrugged, looking up at Geralt again, noting that he was watching her with an anxious expression, but she only brushed off the cuff of her sleeve, reaching to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s mostly just magic and stress that cause any irregularities,” she added, frankly. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Can pregnancy cause irregularity?” Geralt asked, and regretted his bluntness immediately.

Ciri looked up at the bizarre question, her hand hovering halfway to her ear. “Well… yes,” she said after a moment. “Pregnancy causes irregularities, of course. But I haven’t exactly had time for _romance_ since becoming empress, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Right,” Geralt answered, nodding slowly. “But it’s still… hm… a _thing_.”

Ciri’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the witcher, and she pursed her lips, clearly trying to read past his cryptic questions. “_Technically_ speaking, it _is_ something that happens,” she agreed after a moment, speaking slowly. “What a woman loses during her _indisposition_ is what’s needed to keep a baby inside. Once she becomes pregnant, her body needs to keep all of that in until the baby is born. Does that make sense?”

Geralt grunted at the answer, still trying to piece it together. “So… pregnant women need to keep everything inside,” he said, repeating her explanation. “What about… pee.”

Had Ciri been drinking something, she would surely have spat it out – as it was, she quickly covered her mouth, trying her best not to choke in surprised laughter. “What!” she exclaimed, her green eyes brimming with mirth. “Geralt! Did someone tell you pregnant women don’t urinate?” Dropping her hand from her mouth, she let out another hearty laugh, holding her stomach as she drummed her little heels in delight against the marble floor. “Oh, dear,” she sniffled after a moment, wiping away a tear from her eye. “I suspect someone is pulling your leg, Geralt. From what I’ve been told, the baby sits right atop a woman’s bladder. If anything, pregnant women urinate _more_ than most.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, nodding in agreement. “Makes sense now.”

“What makes sense?” Ciri asked, pulling up her shirt to dab at her still-wet eyes.

Geralt shook his head. “Nothing,” he told her. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing.” Emptying the last of the scented oil into his palm, he ran it through his hair, massaging his scalp, before sliding into the water again, wetting it once more to clean it. Then, finished with his bath, he sat up in the tub, clearing his throat and pointing to Ciri again. “Turn around,” he instructed. “Behind the screen. Don’t want you seeing anything.”

“What makes you think I _want_ to look?” Ciri retorted, but she did as she was told, getting up and moving behind the screen.

Geralt watched as Ciri retreated, craning his neck to ensure she was facing the other direction. Then, satisfied he had some semblance of privacy, he pushed himself up from the basin, stepping out onto the polished tiles and picking up the provided towel to begin drying himself off. He tousled his hair with the soft cloth, before starting to dry his body as well, making sure to dab gently at his newest scars before reaching for the clothes Ciri’s manservant had provided him. He had expressed often and openly his distaste for court attire, and it seemed Ciri had taken that to heart when providing clothes for his visit; the shirt she had picked was soft and roomy, and the pants, though a bit tight, were clearly chosen for comfort as well. Geralt hummed in approval as he checked his appearance in the floor-length mirror near the edge of the dressing-space, before reaching for the boots Ciri had provided, starting to pull them on as well.

“I knew you would like the clothes,” Ciri smiled, back at his elbow again from seemingly nowhere. Geralt sighed as he straightened, realizing there would be no point in scolding her for coming back – he was decent now, and had likely been decent the entire time she was watching him. He had not seen her reflection in the mirror when he had been checking his clothes, at least, so she had likely not come around again until he started putting on his boots. Ciri grinned at the witcher, smoothing the shoulders of his shirt, before reaching into his neckline to flip his medallion to the outside, and Geralt frowned as he felt the necklace drop to his chest again, still and heavy like a stone.

“Used to go off when you did that,” he observed. “Doesn’t react to you anymore.”

Ciri made a face, curious and amused. “What made you think of that?” she asked. Then, deciding it was not worth asking, she shook her head, waving a dismissive hand. “It hasn’t reacted to me in quite some time,” she reminded him. “The medallion stops reacting to magic it’s grown accustomed to. Otherwise it would be going off constantly just from being around you. Don’t you think?”

“Makes sense,” Geralt pondered, fingering the wolf’s head absentmindedly. “Doesn’t go off around Yen anymore, either. Not unless she’s casting or opening portals. Goes off around your Nova, still, too.”

“Well, yes,” Ciri agreed, nodding along, thoughtfully. “It has no reason to have grown used to _that_. I’ve hardly grown used to it, myself, and I’ve been doing it for years.” She paused as she pondered this, as if not having truly considered the specifics of it before – then, before he could say anything else, she grabbed his hand again, starting to pull him along eagerly behind her once more. Geralt barely had time to seize his hip-satchel from the dressing-chair before he was pulled out of the room and into the bastion at large, following along behind Ciri as she chattered enthusiastically about anything and everything he had missed in his absence.

She led him through long corridors and finely-decorated rooms as she talked, places in the palace he had never seen before, and he made a note that he would have to return to them later, once she was no longer guiding him and he could take the time to appreciate them better. “I haven’t seen much of Emhyr around,” Ciri observed, drawing Geralt quickly back to the conversation. “He’s been staying mostly in his own palace back home, allowing me space to regulate without him hovering about, trying to influence my hand. He was less than impressed with my decision to nullify the ultimatum on magic-users in the vassal provinces, of course, but I think it was the right choice in extending a gesture of unity on Nilfgaard’s part.”

Pulling him past a door and around a corner, Ciri led Geralt next through the familiar great hall, and he faltered as he noticed two golden thrones atop the carpeted platform, wondering if they had always been there and he had somehow simply missed them before. “I’ve been looking into legislation that would benefit non-humans as well,” Ciri continued, pulling his attention back again, still a bit overwhelmed. “But it’s difficult to find ways to do things that keep everyone happy. I know I can’t please everyone, but I’m hoping I can at least start to rectify Nilfgaard’s reputation by showing that we don’t only care to protect non-humans who help to further our military cause.”

“Lots of people upset with Nilfgaard,” Geralt pointed out, following the conversation as best he could. “For good reason. Might be good to take it slow at first. Don’t want people to get the wrong impression.”

“And what impression is that?” Ciri asked, curiously, turning to look back at him as she began to push open the heavy doors to the courtyard. “That I’ve no wish to be like Emhyr, and am doing all I can to exemplify that?”

Geralt shook his head, helping to push open the second door to the courtyard. “No,” he told her. “That’s fine. Good, actually. You’re not Emhyr. But that’s just it. You don’t want people to think you’re too desperate to seek clemency from those Emhyr wronged before you.” Following Ciri into the courtyard, he squinted against the waning midday sunlight, feeling the warmth of it on his face as they began to make their way down the garden path. Ciri’s garden was just as magnificent as his own back home, if not moreso, with flowering plants springing up from either side of the walkway, painting the courtyard in bright purples, blues, and whites. He could distinctly smell lilac on the breeze as he followed Ciri towards a covered pagoda overlooking a small stream, along with the heady, perfumed scent of roses and the subtle sweetness of honeysuckle.

A small, round table piled high with food was already waiting for them as they crossed the tiny bridge to the gazebo, and Ciri quickly took her seat, indicating for Geralt to take the chair across from hers. Geralt did as he was told, settling down with a grunt, before watching as Ciri began to eagerly pour them two cups of steaming, jasmine-smelling tea, pushing one across the table towards him and picking up the other to take a sip. “Might just be paranoia,” Geralt continued, taking his cup of tea and blowing on it to cool it. “I just worry they might think you’re desperate to provide recompense, and might mistake your empathy for naivety. Or worse, weakness. If they think you’re weak, they might try to retaliate.” Taking a sip of tea, he suppressed a face at the watery taste, before setting his cup down in its matching saucer, deciding he had drunk enough to uphold appearances.

“Seems bleak, but Emhyr hurt a lot of people,” Geralt added, looking up at Ciri again. “Can’t put it past them not to take retribution at the first opportunity they think they can get it.”

Ciri nodded, frowning a bit as she thought, clearly listening as she took another sip of her tea. Then, setting down her cup again, she licked her lips, before looking up at Geralt once more and narrowing her eyes. “Enough about Emhyr, though,” she said, changing the subject. “I didn’t ask you here to talk about politics. I asked you here to talk about witcher matters – which, it seems there’s quite a few of them to discuss.” Pinching her teacup between her slender fingers, she stared at Geralt across the table, watching him closely, but he only stared back, saying nothing, waiting for her to tell him what was on her mind.

“That disc you found,” Ciri continued after a moment, seeming undeterred by his unwillingness to jump in. “You said in your letter you found it in the city. But that’s not entirely true, is it? There’s more to the story than what you let on.” She began to grin as she said this, the corners of her mouth turning upward like a cat discovering a sunbeam. “Where did you _really_ find that disc, Geralt?” she pressed. “And before you lie, know there was a layer of rotten residue on it when it arrived. Rotten _organic_ residue. As if from the belly of some beast you’d slain to obtain it.”

Geralt smirked, having wondered when Ciri might fold and change the topic to witchers and monsters. The amount of time she had tried to spend on politics had been commendable, but he knew her heart still lay with the Path, and her curiosity could never be deterred for long, no matter how heroically she tried. “Not the belly,” he answered, grateful that he could finally tell the truth. “Found it in the neck of a cemetaur-zeugl hybrid.”

At this revelation, Ciri’s eyes widened, and she sat back in her chair, staring in shock at the witcher. “A hybridized crossbreed?” she asked, her voice an astonished hiss. “That’s—incredible! Did you document it fully? Get a scientific authority to verify the find?”

Geralt shook his head, his smile quickly disappearing. “No,” he answered, grimly. “Just took its head. Showed it to Yen, but she didn’t believe me. The only other person who’s seen the beast is dead now, too. Got no one to back me up about it.”

Ciri made a face at the answer, sitting back in her chair with a huff. Then, suddenly, she looked up again, her spirits returning as another thought occurred to her. “Did you bring the disc with you?” she asked, hopefully. Geralt nodded, pulling the polished plate from his hip-satchel and handing it over, and Ciri took it eagerly, holding it up to examine the numbers in the sunlight. “Fascinating,” she said, beaming up at the find. “Did you take it to Fringilla? Did she have any thoughts?”

Geralt shook his head again, his mouth twisting into a frustrated gash. “Yen didn’t want to,” he answered. “Didn’t think she’d help us. Too much bad blood.” Ciri frowned at the news, before turning her attention back to the disc, staring at it intently as she tried to puzzle out what the numbers could mean for herself. Geralt huffed softly, feeling suddenly a bit useless, before clearing his throat, jerking his chin indicatively towards the artifact. “Could be some kind of booking number,” he guessed, hoping to offer something helpful. “Beast was technically a necrophage. Could’ve killed a convict trying to escape through the sewers.” Lifting a hand then, he tapped the side of his neck. “Disc could’ve lodged in its throat when it swallowed him,” he added. “Wasn’t exactly a fan of chewing.”

Ciri looked up at the last comment, as if considering asking Geralt how he knew this, but seemed to decide against it, turning her attention to the plate again instead. “I don’t think so,” she said, thoughtfully, shaking her head. “It looks more like a cataloguing number to me. The kind used for organizing important collections—like in museums, or banks.”

“Maybe it ate a curator,” Geralt joked, holding out a hand for a turn to examine the disc.

“Or a bank robber,” Ciri countered, handing the plate over with a grin. “You did say you found it in the sewer, after all. And everyone knows the sewers are where criminals like to hide. Has there been any mention of a recent bank robbery in Beauclair?”

Geralt shook his head, running a thoughtful finger along the stamped numerals. “Not that I heard about,” he answered, honestly. “But I’ve been busy lately. Haven’t been keeping up.”

“That’s right!” Ciri smiled, eagerly, folding her hands in front of her on the table. “Your ‘other commitments’. So tell me: why is Shani living at Corvo Bianco now?”

Geralt looked up at the question, thinking a moment, before finally setting down the plate again and folding his hands over it with a sigh. “She’s… our guest,” he began, slowly. “She… runs a clinic, and helps with expenses for the house. Or, she will, once the clinic officially opens. Yen submitted a request, but we haven’t heard anything about it. Think it got lost in the works. Or something’s holding it up from approval.”

Ciri faltered at the news, her eager smile falling. “Anna Henrietta hasn’t approved your request?” she asked, sounding confused and affronted. “I don’t see why she shouldn’t. It’s a reasonable request.” She frowned, pondering on what would cause such a delay, before finally lifting a hand, looking as regal as Geralt had ever seen her. “No matter,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll pass it through myself. I’ll write up the paperwork before you leave.”

“Appreciate it,” Geralt told her, nodding, and Ciri nodded back, before leaning in further across the table, staring at him with eager eyes, making it clear she knew there was more to his tale. She had always been a curious girl, he thought, always keen on the trail of a story to be told, and he took a deep breath, feeling anxious cold fill his stomach as he prepared to continue. “Shani’s also… pregnant,” he said after a moment, the words rolling awkwardly off his tongue like gravel. “It’s mine. So… she’s living with us now. At least until the kid is born. Then… dunno. We’ll see after that.” He fell silent after his confession, feeling his stomach start to twist in knots, before he finally looked up at Ciri again, narrowing his eyes as he waited for her reaction.

It was not an easy topic, he knew, and he would not be surprised if she was upset or disappointed in him for it – for the strangeness of it all, the suddenness of it, and how it broke the bounds of everything he had taught her at Kaer Morhen. He worried that the thought of him having a biological child might also strike a personal blow; all her life Ciri had been his one and only child surprise, treated like the daughter he could never have. The thought that their dynamic might now be interrupted in some way was strange, and frightening, and difficult to consider, but he had to wonder if it was Ciri’s view he was considering, or if he was simply projecting his own insecurities in the absence of a better answer.

Ciri said nothing for a while, her slender brow furrowed in a thoughtful frown, clearly still trying to process everything she had just been told. Then, finally, she sat up in her chair again, pressing her hands flat against the tabletop. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked him, sounding bewildered, and Geralt could clearly hear the start of a smile in her voice. “You’re going to be a father, Geralt! With Shani! Don’t you think I would have wanted to know that?”

“Thought you’d be sad,” Geralt admitted, shrugging. “Didn’t want you to worry.”

“Sad?” Ciri scoffed, making a face that reminded him strongly of Yennefer – it was easy to tell where she got her spunk, and it was not from the deadpan witcher sitting across from her. “I’m not sad – I want to know everything! How many months is she? When did you find out?”

Geralt blinked, taken aback by the barrage of questions. “Four,” he finally answered, dumbly.

Ciri stared back at him. “‘Four’?” she repeated. “Four weeks, or four months? You can’t just say ‘four’, Geralt.”

“Four months, I think,” Geralt amended himself, still not entirely sure he knew what he was talking about. “Eighteen weeks, she said. Or… twenty weeks now. I guess. It’s been… some time since then.”

Ciri paused, staring at him for another long moment, before she finally let out a chuckle at his lost expression, shaking her head as she reached across the table for his hand, forgiving his plight. “I love you, Geralt,” she told him, fondly. “And I love Shani, and Yennefer, and your baby as well. You don’t have to worry about me – _really_. As long as you’re all happy and safe, then I’ll continue to be happy for as long as I live.”

Geralt smiled at the vote of confidence, grateful to have Ciri to confide in. Then, clearing his throat, he retrieved his hand, reaching across to spear a pheasant from one of the serving-plates instead. “So what was this lead you wanted me to investigate?” he asked, bringing the pheasant to his plate and starting to carve into it with his fork and knife. “Told me to come out for a contract, but still haven’t told me what it is yet. Starting to get suspicious there might not be one after all.”

“There is,” Ciri assured him, quickly, setting down her teacup before she could take another sip. “The lead comes from a town called Marchen – a small town, just south of Murky Waters. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it.”

“Heard of Murky Waters,” Geralt returned, swallowing a bite of pheasant. “Used to know someone who lived there.”

“It’s close by,” Ciri agreed, picking up a pastry from a plate of sweets on the table. “Just south of Lake Vizima. About two days’ ride from here, if you take the main roads.” Popping the sweet-roll in her mouth, she covered her mouth with her hand as she chewed, making sure to swallow everything down before she continued speaking. “It’s pretty unhospitable, admittedly,” she added, washing the last of it down with a sip of tea. “The road to the town itself is half-hidden by trees, so not many travellers go that way. There’s a superstition surrounding Marchen’s forests as well… they say that all manner of creatures live there, creatures that aren’t found anywhere else in the world. Imps and faefolk and the like.”

“Imps aren’t so bad,” Geralt conceded, picking up a loaf of sweetbread and tearing off the heel. “Though the only faefolk that exist in this plane are elves. Aen Sidhe. And a few rare sylvan. As far as we know.” Ciri watched with barely an expression as he dug eagerly into the bread heel, not even blinking as he shoved half the loaf-end in his mouth in one wolfish bite. He did not have to mind his manners so much around Ciri, a fact which he appreciated – though he was loathe to admit it, he had grown so used to Marlene’s home-cooked meals that trying to revert back to his own half-raw fare had left him nearly starving on the road to Vizima. He had not really considered it before just now, too distracted with the thought of seeing Ciri again, but now that he finally had proper food at his disposal, he was beginning to realize just how ravenous he had been this entire time.

“Other planes _do_ exist, though,” Ciri pointed out, pulling him back to the conversation. “And other creatures in them.” Reaching across the table, she dug her fingers into the heart of Geralt’s sweetbread loaf, stealing a chunk of fluffy white bread before sitting back again and popping it into her mouth. Geralt looked up at the treason, his brow knitting in a look of amused betrayal, but Ciri pretended not to notice, instead trying to hide the small, cheeky smile from her face as she continued. “We’ve both been to such planes, Geralt,” she told him. “And we’ve both seen such creatures break the boundaries of those planes. The Wild Hunt is only one example, but there have been others. Demons, unicorns… it’s not so far-fetched to believe that some others perhaps slipped their way through a planar rift as well.”

“Always possible,” Geralt returned, unable to help grinning at his ward in spite of himself. “Or it could just be superstition. Old wives’ tales. People scaring themselves over rocks and shadows.”

“Well, this was no shadow,” Ciri answered, matter-of-factly, sitting up a bit straighter in her chair as she spoke. “It’s true that nothing ever really came of those woods, in spite of the stories… but this is not the same. There have been multiple reports of this, and all with similar descriptions. If it _is_ a wives’ tale, it’s a mighty good one to spook the villagers of Marchen so.” Picking up her teacup, she washed down her bite of bread with a sip of tea, before setting the cup back on the saucer in front of her, spinning it thoughtfully in the porcelain groove as she licked her lips again, thinking back to the report.

“They say there’s a being that lives in the wood,” she said after a moment, causing Geralt to lift his golden eyes again, intrigued by her suddenly more serious tone. “The way the people tell it, nothing of any real note had ever truly lived in that forest… apart from a few tall tales, the villagers of Marchen saw no reason they should actually fear the place. Then one day, they started hearing music coming from the woods. The sound of someone playing an instrument, as if in an attempt to lure them in.”

“Sounds like dryads,” Geralt commented, thoughtfully, tearing off another piece of sweetbread. “Possibly even elves, if it was just music.”

“It wasn’t _elves_, Geralt,” Ciri retorted, miffed that he was trying to dismiss the strangeness of her story so early in its telling. Picking up her teacup again, she swirled it around, staring down into the base as she thinned her lips in thought. “Of course, people have always been frightened of things they don’t understand,” she continued after a moment, undeterred. “Even moreso since learning the truth about the Crones, and the Hunt… for good reason. But because of that, people were too afraid to investigate the sounds coming from the forest at first. They feared it might be bandits, or witches, or worse. Then one day, a man dared venture into the forest to look for game to feed his family, but instead of bandits, he came across this… well…”

“What?” Geralt asked, intrigued.

“_Thing_,” Ciri answered, looking up again, her frown remaining, though now more troubled than annoyed. “This… _being_, was how he described it. For it was a being, he said. Not a creature.” Dropping her gaze to the table again, Ciri paused, distant in thought, her green eyes fixed on the finery before her, intent but unseeing as she considered the story. “The villager claimed that the being possessed the same intelligence as a man,” she continued after a moment, and Geralt could tell there was something different in her voice now – a reflectiveness, as if something had only just occurred to her in retelling the tale to a fellow witcher. “A clever man, the way he told it. He said at first he would have mistaken the being as just another human, but for something that seemed… not quite right.”

Ciri’s fingers twitched faintly around her teacup as she said this, a fleeting motion that would have escaped the notice of most, but Geralt was quick to catch even the slightest changes from his former ward. He frowned at the shift in her demeanour, the small, telling details that made it clear something was upsetting her, and he shifted in his own chair, giving a soft huff as he tried to think of a way to ease her concern. “Could be a lot of things,” he reasoned, pushing his teacup away from him across the table, watching as Ciri’s eyes followed the cup before returning again to his face. He had never been much for tea, but he had at least tried this time, and he could tell that she appreciated the effort. “A few different monsters can mimic human likeness. Godlings, succubae… dopplers, especially.”

“Yes, as we both know,” Ciri agreed, allowing a faint hint of a smile to touch her lips at the thought. It was a fleeting gesture, but lasted just long enough for Geralt to catch a glimpse of the puckish youth who had once shared happily in his adventures, standing by his side and – to his dismay – making friends with the oddball personalities who had come to be a part of his everyday life.

Geralt grunted, enjoying the conversation, but even in his enjoyment he could still not help feeling a bit worried about whatever it was that was troubling Ciri. She had never been shy about speaking her mind for as long as he had known her, particularly to him, so the thought that she was choosing to keep whatever this was inside concerned him far more than if she had chosen to simply come out and tell him about it. If he knew, he could at least have a chance to try his hand at fixing it, but as long as she continued to stay silent on the matter, all he could do was worry just as silently in return.

“What else did he say about this… creature?” Geralt asked, hoping to pull more information out of her. Ciri looked up at this, staring at him across the table, her piercing green eyes watchful and knowing over the line of her gold-rimmed teacup; she always seemed able to read him like a book, Geralt thought, even when he was trying his hardest not to be read. Witchers were trained in skills of deception, and Geralt was better than most: he had learned at Kaer Morhen how to level his heartrate, monitor his breathing, control every aspect of his physical tells so even the most accomplished behaviourist would be readily fooled – but Ciri had always been the most difficult to trick, no matter how hard he had tried, or how long he had spent attempting to perfect his craft against her watchful eye.

“Well, as I said, it was not a _creature_,” Ciri finally answered, setting her teacup down again, before starting to tap her finger pensively against the side, a habit he was not even sure she was aware she had picked up from him. “At least, it did not speak or act like a creature, according to the report.” Taking a deep breath, her brow furrowed again, her pearly teeth skating over her lip as she thought, before she finally let out a heavy sigh, seeming annoyed at her lack of information. “The witness’ overall description of the being was very vague, unfortunately,” she added. “He only said that, whatever it was, it spoke as it if had known him all his life… and for whatever reason, it always seemed to carry a wooden spoon.”

Geralt felt his heart drop at the final detail, the faint smile of before vanishing immediately from his face. “A wooden spoon?” he repeated, too startled to mask his unease. He could feel a tight, wrenching knot twisting in the pit of his stomach at the thought – while the idea of a forest creature with a spoon might have seemed whimsical or endearing to some, he had only ever come across one being in his lifetime that had carried that token trinket; a being he had hoped he would never again encounter as long as he still lived.

It had been only a little over four months since his nearly-fatal run-in with the man of glass, an experience which had ended with him playing a twisted riddle game for the prize of two men’s souls, his own included. He had hoped the devil might bide his time at least a little longer before showing his face around their material plane again, but from Ciri’s description of the being in the woods, it seemed his hopes had been too fanciful to be true. He had learned long ago that optimism was often synonymous with ill-preparedness in his line of work, but he had hoped he would have had at least a small amount of time for things to return to normal again, some small respite before everything was once again turned on its head – especially by someone as adept at turning things upside-down as Gaunter O’Dimm.

Thinning his lips, Geralt folded his hands in front of him, racking his brain to find a suitable answer for Ciri about her contract. He did not want to alarm her in case he was wrong, and this was not the same wicked being who had nearly laid claim to his soul, but at the same time he did not want to play intentionally into the spread of wilful ignorance, especially if doing so might have the potential to put his foster daughter in danger. “You’re sure it was a spoon?” he finally asked, hoping against hope that this was all some great misunderstanding. He was willing to be wrong, happy to be wrong, if it meant he would not have to deal with the master of mirrors again so soon after their last encounter. “Couldn’t have been something else? A—twig, maybe, or… a doll? How sure was your witness that it was a spoon?”

Ciri said nothing, only narrowed her eyes, before one brow began to climb slowly upward, eventually moving to arch curiously over her eye as she traced the tip of her finger thoughtfully along the edge of her teacup. “What do you know, Geralt?” she asked, speaking slowly, making it clear she had no intention of letting him leave until she learned the truth. “Is there some significance to the spoon I’m not aware of?”

“Maybe,” Geralt answered, honestly. “Depends on if the creature is what I think it is.”

“And if it’s not?” Ciri asked, her fingers pinching curiously around the edge of her cup.

Geralt grunted again, turning his hands to rest them palms-down against the tablecloth. “Then there’s nothing to worry about,” he answered, frankly. “I’ll go in, see what the problem is, and either get rid of it or determine there’s no threat.”

“And if it is what you think it is?” Ciri asked, her second shapely brow moving up to meet the first.

Furrowing his own brow, Geralt looked up across the table at Ciri again, his golden eyes sharp and weary at the persistent line of questioning. He knew that to dismiss the potential of O’Dimm’s return would only disadvantage Ciri if the worst had truly come to pass, but at the same time, instilling premature terror would only cause undue panic, and could very well do irreversible harm. “I don’t know,” he finally answered, offering the only honest response he could think of. It was not particularly satisfactory, but he supposed it was the best he could give without providing a false sense of security or alarm. He did not have all the answers, as much as he wished he did, and without that, he only knew how to say what he had been taught to say in situations like these – when townsfolk came asking about the monsters in their woods, the ghosts in their cellars, the corpse-eaters in their streets. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Ciri frowned at the roundabout response, as clearly dissatisfied with the answer as he knew she would be, before taking another sip of her tea, sitting back in her chair and staring down thoughtfully into the dregs of her cup. Despite her silence, her expression was clear; even with her informants keeping her apprised of goings-on like these, she still did not have nearly the amount of information she would have liked to have. She missed the life of a witcher, he could tell – she missed collecting clues from scrawled pages pinned to dingy notice-boards, tracking the beast through the dark woods, and the thrill of the hunt as she finally came across her quarry. She missed coming away from the fight with something new and exciting, some new scar to showcase at the local tavern or a new tale to tell around a roaring fire. She missed ending her nights dirty, bloody, and exhausted, sleeping hard on an animal skin on a cold wood floor, or laid out across roots and dirt under the stars, ready to get up and start it all over again the following day.

“I suppose that is all I can ask of you,” Ciri finally responded, and Geralt could plainly hear the bitter disappointment in her voice, wishing she could know just a bit more, or better yet, investigate alongside him when he went into the wood. But she was empress of Nilfgaard now, and chasing after witcher contracts was no longer part of her life – she had a responsibility to her people now, an obligation that slaying monsters could simply not provide.

Geralt let out a soft sigh at the sight of his daughter so bitterly disappointed; he hated to see her sad, even when he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Reaching across the table to her, he slid his large hand over her much smaller one, wrapping his fingers around her palm as he had done a thousand times when she was young. Looking up at Geralt in surprise, Ciri set down her teacup again, her green eyes wide, clearly expecting something, though he could tell even she had no idea what. “This is where you belong,” he told her, his voice even, gravelled, but soft. He hated to lie to her, but he knew it was only a lie in the fact that he wished it was not so true. In all honesty, he knew she was better off here, and that Nilfgaard was better for her leadership as well. “No one knows how to protect their people better than a witcher.”

Ciri faltered at the accolade, before a small, weary smile began to creep across her lips again. Then, turning her hand under his, she closed her fingers around his rough palm, giving it a soft squeeze, before leaning across the table to kiss him gently on the forehead.


	10. Nightshade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is having a good, safe month! As always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated! ♡

Ciri’s description of Marchen as a small town had been an understatement, Geralt soon discovered. It had been difficult enough for him to find his way back to Murky Waters, despite having been there once before, but gaining directions to the even smaller hamlet to the south had proven nearly impossible. He had eventually found luck at the tavern, getting directions from a friendly drifter at the bar, and he set out again with his destination fresh in his mind, making a note of every rock and tree the traveller had mentioned.

The road to Marchen was winding and treacherous, leading the witcher over a rickety bridge that had not seen repair in quite some time, before narrowing to barely a dusty ribbon, causing Roach to toss her mane uneasily at the tightening path. “Easy, girl,” Geralt coaxed, giving the mare a gentle pull on her reigns. Roach blustered, giving her head another wary shake, before laying her ears flat, keeping her head low as the path began to gather with looming branches. Ciri had warned Geralt of the forest around the town, but even that was not enough to quell his uneasiness at the sight of it – the trees grew unnervingly close together here, so close that it would be difficult for him to pick a path through it, but easy enough for any manner of beast or bandit to hide with little fear of detection.

Geralt clicked his tongue, reassuring Roach, unable to help wondering if he was doing it for his own sake as well. Then, focusing his senses on the woods around him, he listened for any sign of monsters approaching. The forest was silent as they rode through, eerily deadened to any of the usual sounds of nature, with no chirping of birds or chittering of squirrels to break the wail of the wind rustling thinly through the leaves. Geralt had only ever heard forests go quiet like this when a leshen or other powerful creature took up residence there, but he was certain whatever was causing this particular disturbance was no mere leshen or penitent. It would be easy to hear music coming from these woods, he thought, with no other sounds to compete with it, though he now found himself wondering where that music had gone, if the creature still resided here, as Ciri had said.

It was possible the creature was merely asleep, he figured, though he knew that possibility was too innocent to be true. More likely, he thought, the only purpose of the music had been to draw in a witness, some unsuspecting innocent to report back on the creature’s presence, thereby luring other curious victims into its sinister snare.

“Damn woods,” Geralt swore, turning his head as a rustle from the treeline caught his attention – but it was only a bird hunting for a worm in a pile of leaves, and he let out a sharp huff, his nerves thoroughly rattled. It seemed nature did still exist here in some way, but the animals had all been rendered silent by whatever else resided in the woods, either from fear of the creature itself, or for some other, more troubling reason.

The rickety signpost with its faded lettering announcing his arrival to Marchen was a welcome sight, and Geralt gladly steered Roach through the weather-worn gate, making his way for the nearest tavern. The hamlet itself, he quickly realized, was barely the size of a mining-camp, and as he made his way towards the heart of the tiny town, he began to see just how accurate that assessment was. The entire village of Marchen, it seemed, had been built to surround an active charcoal kiln, with its precipitous form looming at the edge of town like a bleak, smouldering beacon. Several of the charcoal-workers perched atop the mound looked up curiously as the witcher rode past, but Geralt did not have time to greet them, only sneezing as the smell of smoke tickled his senses, before using his hand to cover his nose and mouth as he continued towards the centre of town.

Reaching the tiny tavern, Geralt was quick to dismount, tying Roach outside, before heading into the inn itself, having to duck a bit to avoid hitting his head on the low-built doorframe. The air inside the tavern was a bit more palatable than outside, though the smell of soot still hung heavy on the patrons as Geralt made his way to the bar, settling down on one of the shaky stools and trying to ignore the creak and rattle of its craftsmanship. A few patrons sitting at the bar with him – villagers of Marchen from the blackened state of their hands and necks – looked over in interest as the witcher sat down, clearly identifying him as an outsider, but he ignored their stares, instead raising a hand to beckon over the woman behind the bar. The woman seemed hesitant to oblige him at first, but after a moment, she made her way over to where he sat, leaning her wide hip against the bar counter as she continued to clean a mug with a towel dirtier than the flagon.

“A visitor in town,” the barmaid commented, not bothering to hide her suspicious tone. “Don’t get many visitors to Marchen. You lost? Or looking for kilner’s work?”

“Looking for witcher’s work,” Geralt answered, trying his best to sound amicable in return. “Heard there was a man here, saw a creature in the woods. Word spread to Vizima, so they asked me to investigate.”

“Vizima, aye?” the woman asked, sounding falsely impressed, almost sarcastic. Her attitude surprised Geralt, and he frowned a bit, wondering if she thought he was making the whole thing up. “That’s mighty far to go for witcher’s work,” the woman commented. “Don’t you have no monsters of your own to fight? Gotta come all the way out here to find ‘em?”

“Got plenty of monsters,” Geralt answered, keeping his voice even as he folded his hands on the bar. “But none of them seemed as interesting as yours. Wanted to come out and see for myself.”

“Well, you’re shit out of luck, witcher,” the woman told him, starting to wipe down the bar counter with her dirty towel next. “T’ain’t got no monsters here, I’m afraid. Just a nice man, what’s living in the woods. Like a hermit.”

“A nice man,” Geralt repeated, frowning, lifting his hands to allow her to clean under them. “Did he say what his name was, this nice man? Did he try to make a deal with any of you?”

“Deals? No,” the woman said, shaking her head and _tsk_ing through a gap in her teeth. “Hasn’t made no deals. He’s a merchant, alright, but he’s got no stock. Down on his luck, he says.”

“‘S why he’s taken up living in the woods,” another patron at the bar chimed in, causing Geralt to look over at him next, surprised that so many seemed familiar with the hermit’s story. “Waiting for his ship to come in. The White Wolf, I think he called it. He says he’s waiting for the White Wolf.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, narrowing his eyes. “Did he mention what kind of merchant he was?”

“Mirrors, sir,” a quiet voice from behind him answered, and Geralt turned, looking to see who had addressed him this time. The man standing behind him was thin and pale, almost sickly-looking, with thick, straw-coloured hair that had grown too long to stay out of his watery greyish eyes. His lips were cracked from kiln smoke, his nails black and ragged with charcoal dust, and he held a loose red hat in his hands, wringing it anxiously as he stood back a few paces from the bar. “Saw you come in here, sir,” the man told him, squeezing the brim of the hat until his knuckles paled, staring at the witcher as if afraid to even speak to the monster-hunter. “Knew you when I saw you. Had to be, I said. Had to be the witcher, come to seek the creature.”

“There ain’t no creature, Peter, you fool,” another patron at the bar chided, causing the man named Peter to flinch. “He’s but a merchant, down on his luck. Says he used to live here, that’s why he knows us all.”

“He said he used to live here?” Geralt asked, focusing his attention entirely on Peter – whatever this fearful man’s story was, he seemed to be the only one with any objectivity on the matter.

Peter nodded, chewing his lip, twisting his hat until Geralt was sure the threads would break. “Yes, master,” he said, softly. “But I’ve lived here all my life. And my father before me, and his before him. We ain’t never seen no one selling mirrors this whole time. Ain’t never seen no one what looked like him.”

“Go home, Peter, you lowlife,” the first patron called, picking up a heel of bread from his plate and lobbing it at the man with the hat. Peter cowered as the bread heel bounced off his shoulder, and Geralt stood quickly from his stool, blocking him from another blow. The patron who had thrown the bread hocked loudly at the show of bravado, waving a dismissive hand as he leaned his elbows on the bar again. “Ain’t nothing but a no-good gambler, this one,” he said, indicating towards Peter, who quickly dropped his gaze. “Lost all his money on gwent, he did, so now he’s tryin’ to spread tales of creatures in the woods. No magical creature’s gonna explain to your wife where all your food money went, Peter! She’ll find out, she will!”

“Come on,” Geralt pressed, taking Peter’s arm with a firm grip and starting to steer him for the door of the bar. “Let’s talk outside.”

“I’m not making this up, sir,” Peter pleaded, his voice cracking desperately as he was pushed in front of the witcher. “Please, believe me! I gamble, I do, but I’m not making excuses. That _thing_ is not what it seems.”

“I know,” Geralt answered, speaking in a low voice, too quiet for the other patrons to hear. “I want to hear your side of things. Just shut up until we can find someplace to talk.” His answer seemed to surprise Peter, and the man instantly relaxed in his grasp, saying nothing until the two of them were outside the bar and Geralt had released his arm. “Now,” the witcher said, turning to face the charcoaller again. “Tell me everything you know.”

Peter seemed stunned for a moment, blinking a few times, as if this were the first time anyone had bothered to hear him out. Then, pursing his lips, he took a deep breath, causing his entire body to give a faint tremor as he prepared to speak. “He knew things, witcher,” he said, his voice shaking, and Geralt frowned at the vague answer, hoping the man would elaborate. “He knew things he shouldn’t. He knew my wife’s name. He said—how are Lisbeth and the children faring? But… I never told him I had children, sir.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, his frown deepening. “And what did he look like, this knowledgeable man?”

Peter sucked his lip, considering for a moment. “Like nothing, at first,” he finally responded, his voice so quiet Geralt had to lean in to hear him. “Could’ve passed for a merchant, just as he said. Yellow tunic, black boots, leather satchel like any might carry… but that was before I saw his eyes, sir. Oh… just the _blackest_ eyes.” He stopped, giving a visible shudder, before looking up at Geralt again, clearly afraid. “Black as night, they were, I swear,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, seeming scared to even speak on the subject. “No light in those eyes to be seen. It was as if… they’d swallowed it up, and there was none left to be had.”

Geralt lowered his gaze, remembering too well those unnervingly dark eyes; there had been something unsettling about them even back then, though he had never been able to place just what. Now, he realized that Peter’s comment about them reflecting no light made sense, and he made a face, wondering what kind of creature would be able to achieve so subtle yet so disturbing a trick. “And he’s still in the forest?” he asked, looking up at Peter again, determined to hear all he knew. “Sure he hasn’t left? Didn’t hear any music when I was coming into town.”

“He hasn’t played today,” Peter answered, frankly, shaking his head. “But he played yesterday. And the day before that. Always luring people in… ‘just wanting to talk’.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered again, before nodding, figuring he had all he needed to know. “Thanks. You’ve been helpful.” Turning for the darkened forest, he paused, staring into the trees, before a sudden thought occurred to him, and he turned back towards Peter again. “One more thing,” he said, causing Peter to look up in surprise. “Did you make any deals with this merchant? Did he offer you something in exchange for, maybe… something you’d never miss?”

Peter frowned at the question, pulling his cap onto his head, and Geralt tried not to stare at the way it sagged from all the anxious twisting. “I know better than to make deals with magic beings, sir,” Peter said after a moment, shaking his head with determination. “Can’t speak for none of the others, but I made no deals. Would rather eat sawdust than be a rich man with a heart of stone.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the comment, taken aback by the pointedness of the man’s example. “What makes you say that?” he asked, warily.

Peter shrugged, seeming less perturbed. “That’s how those stories go,” he answered, simply. “You make deals with imps, they’ll give you good tidings. But make deals with devils, and they’ll steal the heart from you. Replace it with one made of stone, such that you’ll never feel happiness again.”

Geralt frowned, his lips thinning into a troubled line. “Not the first time I’ve heard that,” he admitted. Then, turning away from Peter again, he set his sights on the forest, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves before starting to make his way for the darkened line of the trees.

* * *

The forest was still as death around him, all sounds of normal wildlife having fallen silent, making the air feel thick as milk as Geralt trod cautiously through the underbrush. He could hear his boots tramping across leaves and twigs, causing him to nearly flinch at the loudness of the sound; he had always taken pride in his skill as a hunter, his ability to tread silently as he tracked his quarry, so light on his feet despite his size that most monsters barely detected his approach. Now, in the stillness of Marchen’s forest, he felt like a troll plodding through crunching snow, every shift of his armour like the rattle of saddle-bags, every bounce of his swords ringing deafeningly in his ears, all the potions in his hip-satchel clinking together like a tavern at full capacity.

Then, the music began.

It was soft at first, so soft he almost mistook it for the wind rustling through the trees – but the melody itself was so hauntingly familiar that it did not take long for him to realize what it was. He remembered the tune with chilling clarity from his times passing through the small town of Yantra, where a group of children would sit gathered around the crooked marker at the intersection of the crossroads, singing the eerie melody as they rolled a ball between them. The witcher had not thought much of this ritual at first, having taken it as merely a town eccentricity – a strange game played among local children, as children were wont to do – but it had occurred to him, after passing through a few times, that they always seemed to sit in the exact same spot, always singing the same tune for hours on end, never turning their eyes to passers-by.

It was almost, Geralt had thought at the time, as if they felt somehow compelled to do this, driven to the crossroads by some strange, supernatural force, some otherworldly power drawing the sensitive to its epicentre. It was as if something were making its presence known, just subtle enough to go mostly unnoticed by the locals, but just unsettling enough to put the witcher’s nerves on edge, giving him some sign that something was not quite right with the town at the intersection of the crossroads.

_His smile fair as spring, as towards him he draws you…  
_ _His tongue sharp and silv’ry, as he implores you…_

The tune in the forest had no words, but the lyrics still rang clear in Geralt’s head, and he quickly shook it, pushing the memory of the children’s voices from his ears before continuing on. “Fucking demon,” he growled, the words barely more than a mutter – but they seemed to have an effect regardless, as the music began to grow faintly louder in response, echoing chillingly through the maze of the trees. Whatever was playing had clearly become aware that Geralt was privy to its presence, and he felt his blood run cold at the idea that the creature knew exactly where he was, when he still had no idea where it could be hiding.

_Your wishes he grants, as he swears to adore you…  
_ _Gold, silver, jewels, he lays riches before you…_

He could feel the hair prickling on the back of his neck, his senses on high alert as he followed the sound deeper into the forest, growing more and more lost in the sameness of the trees as he sought to find the source of the otherworldly melody. Wherever the flute music was coming from, it seemed to echo like a cathedral through the winding brush, growing steadily louder with every step the witcher took in its haunting direction. He was unsure if the music even had one single source now – from the way it reverberated, it seemed to be coming from all directions at once – and he turned on his heel, his hand clenching at his side, tempted to draw his sword in case the creature decided to appear from thin air and attack.

_Dues need be repaid, and he will come for you…  
_ _All to reclaim, no smile to console you…_

Geralt turned again as the music continued, looking up into the gathering of trees, feeling his blood run cold again as he suddenly felt something focusing in on him. It was a chilling sensation, like the feeling of inhuman eyes peering out at him from the darkness of a cave; he had felt the sensation a hundred times before, hunting monsters in the depths of the darkest caverns, and he felt his skin prickle at the feeling of being watched, his muscles tensing as the sound of the reed flute grew louder yet again. It was taunting him, calling him in one singular direction, giving him the distinct feeling he was being led into a trap, yet he knew he had no choice but to follow the sound if he wished to find whatever he had come here for.

_He’ll snare you in bonds, eyes glowin’ afire…  
_ _To gore and torment you, ‘til the stars expire…_

As soon as the last verse ended, the music came to a sudden stop, and Geralt froze as he found himself standing in the middle of a clearing, having not even noticed where his feet were taking him. He felt exposed with the lack of trees, unnerved at the sudden change in scenery, wondering what had caused this part of the forest to remain so barren when all around him the trees grew so close together it was difficult not to feel claustrophobic when navigating between them. He had heard tell of faerie gates in his study of regional tales, areas of the forest where the trees dared not grow, places where a great magical force had appropriated all available energy, clearing the way for fae to pass through the border from their world to another. He doubted greatly that whatever had called him to this spot in the forest was a mere fae, however, and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, allowing his senses to clear in the same way he usually did while meditating.

“Greetings, Geralt.”

The words were simple, but the voice rolled down his spine like cold monster saliva, and he suppressed a shudder as he opened his eyes, looking up at last towards its source. The Man of Glass was as Geralt remembered him – unnervingly plain, just as Peter had described, so unremarkable by design that he could have easily passed for a traveller crossing paths with the witcher in the wood. The only things that separated him from the façade of a fellow traveller were his cold, lightless eyes, and the fact that he was sitting several feet off the ground, perched in the branches of a large, leafy tree, legs tucked neatly under him as he stared down at the witcher from a spot he had not occupied only seconds before.

O’Dimm grinned as Geralt acknowledged him, his stubbled face splitting into a wide, unsettling curve, and Geralt had to resist turning back to return to Marchen, doing everything in his power to keep his feet planted firmly in place. “What a pleasant surprise to see you again, witcher,” O’Dimm smiled, folding his hands eagerly in his lap. “I thought for sure you had retired from your avaricious profession. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?”

“Contract,” Geralt answered, bluntly, making a sour face. The sight of the devil was bad enough without the mocking voice to accompany it, and he was in no mood to pretend he shared O’Dimm’s enthusiasm for seeing one another again. “Thought it might be you. Figured if it was, I could at least get some answers.”

“I much prefer questions to answers,” O’Dimm returned, his cattish grin widening. “But if you insist. What was it you wanted to ask me? Perhaps I have the answers you seek.”

“The monsters I fought in Toussaint,” Geralt said, not bothering to explain further. If O’Dimm was truly responsible, there would be no need to fill him in on what he already knew. “Only someone like you would have the power to do that. Create creatures like that, and put them there for me to fight.”

“And what makes you think I have the power to do that?” O’Dimm asked, narrowing his eyes in amusement.

Geralt frowned at the question. “I’ve seen you,” he said, holding out a hand. “I’ve seen you make monsters. The toad in the sewer. The Caretaker. The cat and dog, Iris’ companions—”

“Illusions,” O’Dimm cut over him, waving a theatrical hand. “Demons and apparitions, all. Not true living beings. Not even Iris.” Propping a hand on his folded knee, he looked down at the witcher, his wicked smirk widening. “I cannot create something from nothing, Geralt,” he said, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Nothing of substance, of flesh and blood. Even the toad was already alive before I got to him—just in a different form. I have power the likes of which you’ll never fully understand, but I’m afraid I cannot create mortal life from nothing.”

Geralt’s frown deepened at the answer, not quite believing him. “And the girl?” he asked. “Was she an illusion, too? Or was that you, in some manufactured disguise?”

O’Dimm narrowed his eyes at the question. “Girl?” he asked. “What girl is that, exactly?”

“The girl that keeps coming around,” Geralt answered, annoyed that he had to explain himself. He could not quite tell if the demon was playing with him, trying to test his nerves, or if he truly had no idea what the witcher was talking about. “Keeps bringing me contracts. Little redheaded girl. Was that your doing, too?”

O’Dimm’s assured smile flickered for a moment, as if something in what he had been told had troubled him, but his expression quickly cleared again, returning to the same sinister smirk of before. “I’ve never changed my shape for anyone’s benefit,” he answered, giving another amused shrug and shake of his head. “I only reveal myself to those I wish to see me. To everyone else, my face is unrecognizable— a blur in the mind of a passer-by. Why in the world would I change my form when I can completely control who sees it?”

Geralt thinned his lips at the answer, realizing he could make no argument to disprove what O’Dimm was saying. He had seen the demon do exactly what he described on multiple occasions, including to him, revealing himself from the form of a stranger that had moments before had a face the witcher could not quite commit to memory. His magic was unsettling in the way it worked, and downright frightening in the power it held, but it seemed it did in fact have _some_ limitations— though Geralt had to wonder if ‘creating mortal life’ was truly something that could be considered limiting.

O’Dimm smiled as he waited for Geralt’s response, silent but watchful like a bird of prey, his dark eyes narrowing as he observed the witcher from his vantage point in the tree. The thought of being scrutinized by the demon – or devil, or djinn, or whatever O’Dimm was – was unnerving at best, but Geralt held his ground, challenging the creature to say or do something that would warrant a quick, decisive blow from his silver blade. “Nothing to add?” O’Dimm finally asked. “That’s fine. I’ve more than enough to ask of my own. For one—you say you’ve come to fulfil a contract, but I thought your days of hunting monsters for coin were long finished.”

As he spoke, a soft, rhythmic tapping sound began to reach Geralt’s ears, and when he looked down, it was to see the wooden spoon being tapped against O’Dimm’s arm, measuring a beat as the demon pondered over the conversation. Ciri had mentioned that Peter had brought up the spoon in his report, but the reference alone could not compare to the sight of the cursed utensil itself – the same wickedly powerful artifact that had turned Marlene into a spotted wight, and the one Geralt had once seen O’Dimm drive into the eye-socket of a man who had merely deigned to interrupt his conversation.

Tucking his legs up under him on the branch, O’Dimm let out a long, low, drawn-out hum, picking up the spoon to instead tap it against his lip, his dark eyes travelling in a wide, pondering arc. “You’re not a man who cares about money,” he mused, seeming more entertained by this than Geralt felt he had any reason to be. “Not anymore, at least. So my question, then, is this: if not for pay, then what has _truly_ brought you out to these woods today?” Geralt said nothing, crossing his arms, allowing O’Dimm to conjecture to the air; he had no intention of playing games with the demon, but it seemed O’Dimm had every intention of playing games with him.

“You’ve already got everything you could possibly want,” O’Dimm observed, not seeming to care that Geralt was not playing along. “At least, everything that money could buy. A lavish home, a private vineyard, a beautiful sorceress wife…” Pausing again, he rolled his lips, seeming to revel in the mystery. Then, realizing something, he straightened on the branch, his dark brows raising as a knowing grin split his cheeks. “Oh!” he gasped, causing Geralt to look up at the sound. “She’s pregnant, isn’t she? That must be it.”

The haste with which he had come to this conclusion gave Geralt a start, and he raised his brows, only to quickly lower them again, not wanting to give anything away. It was possible, he figured, that O’Dimm had heard rumours of Shani’s symptoms if he had taken to skulking about Oxenfort disguised as a face in the university crowd—or perhaps, he thought, O’Dimm had seen her arrive at Corvo Bianco while wandering the manor grounds undetected by the witcher and his staff. That last thought made Geralt’s skin crawl, and he quickly thought back to his last few weeks at the manor, trying to remember if he had noticed anyone wandering the grounds whose face he had not recognized. He could not remember anyone specific, but he knew that meant little with the way O’Dimm’s magic worked, and he stayed silent, doing his best not to let on how unnerved he was as he stared the demon down.

“Yes,” O’Dimm continued, either having missed Geralt’s fleeting lapse of stoicism or simply not letting on that he had seen it. “The foreseeable arrival of a child would certainly warrant the taking on of treacherous tasks for extra funds. Especially if the child were unplanned, as… well, I don’t take you for the planning type, Geralt. However…” He paused to puzzle again, tapping the spoon thoughtfully against his lip, as if the metronomic beat would somehow help him concoct a rational solution. “Yennefer is a sorceress,” he observed, seeming less concerned with the logistics and more entertained by the challenge of a riddle. “She can’t have children of her own. And neither could you, as far as I knew. But if you’re here, then you must have managed somehow… but how?”

Pausing again, he stilled in his tapping, allowing the spoon to rest pensively against his lips. “Perhaps your feats of heroism have somehow reinvigorated your sluggish sperm,” he suggested after a moment. “Or perhaps you imbibed a strange potion on the street, one which forever altered your mutational chemistry. I suppose the world will never know. A pity… that would make for _such_ an interesting story.”

“No problem with my sperm,” Geralt answered, flatly.

O’Dimm chuckled, waving the spoon in a dismissive arc. “Clearly not, if you’ve somehow managed to get a young lady pregnant,” he agreed. “I can’t imagine Yennefer is too pleased about that. But I also imagine it was as much a surprise to you as it was to her.” Leaning forward in his seat on the branch, he locked eyes with the witcher, angling himself in a way Geralt knew should have been impossible for anyone bound by the laws of physics. “There_ is_ such a thing as protection, Geralt,” O’Dimm told him, smirking, amused with his own witticisms. “Even _your_ mighty sword could benefit from the use of a sheath sometimes.”

Geralt flushed at the comment, feeling cold rage start to fill his stomach at the implication. It was easy enough to look back on his actions and lament the consequences now, knowing what he knew, but at the time there had been no reason to believe anything else was needed but himself, the moonlight, and Shani. He could still remember the taste of her skin, the softness of her hair between his fingers as he came inside her, completely unaware that anything would come of that night but a few stinging scratch-marks and a sweet-smelling, gradually-fading memory.

“Ah, I know who it is,” O’Dimm suddenly spoke again, his wicked grin widening, sending an icy chill up the witcher’s spine. “It has to be. That fetching redhead I saw you dancing with at the wedding. The one dear Vlodimir seemed so fond of. What was her name, again?” Geralt pursed his lips at the taunt, his teeth clenching so tightly he expected them to crack, feeling a vein flicker painfully in his cheek as he stared up at the man in the tree. Despite Geralt’s rage, O’Dimm only stared back, seeming more amused than anything by the witcher’s reaction. “Ah, Shani!” he finally answered, seeming pleased with himself for remembering, though Geralt was sure he had never forgotten. “That was her name, yes. The doctor from Oxenfort. A fine catch, that one. Sure to be a… _wonderful _mother to your little one.”

“Don’t talk about Shani,” Geralt growled, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them. “This has nothing to do with her, O’Dimm. That’s not why I came.”

“Isn’t it?” O’Dimm asked, looking up again, his dark eyes flashing with a knowledge Geralt resented. “As far as I know, you’ll _come_ for just about any pretty woman who sits still long enough. Am I wrong?” Geralt felt his ears burn pink at the jab, but he said nothing, only clenched his jaw harder, feeling his face twist and twitch with disgust as he fought back the urge to bare his teeth in a snarl. O’Dimm chuckled at the witcher’s reaction, tracing a finger across the head of his spoon, the smug curve of his feline mouth making Geralt’s usually-stalwart stomach turn, threatening to empty its contents on the forest floor.

Narrowing his eyes then, O’Dimm paused, before taking in a long breath as he stared at the witcher, seeming to be extracting something from Geralt’s expression only he could understand. “That isn’t why you’re here though, is it?” he finally asked, his fingers wrapping thoughtfully around the neck of the spoon. “No… you didn’t come to find me at Shani’s behest. It was someone else, wasn’t it? Another woman in your life.” Resting his clenched hands against his knees, O’Dimm paused another moment, his eyes keen and bottomless, watching Geralt’s face for some hint of an expression, some flash of weakness, something that told him what he was seeking to know. Geralt only stared back, his expression unwavering, giving nothing but the blank, hateful stare of a man looking on at a criminal’s execution.

“Was it Ciri?” O’Dimm suddenly asked, and Geralt felt a flash of dread shoot through him at the name. He could feel his expression falter, just long enough to allow a flicker of panic to pass, but he quickly fixed it, returning his countenance to stony apathy once more. Despite his best efforts, it seemed his moment of weakness was enough to confirm what O’Dimm already knew, and he smirked at the foible, letting out a soft, contented chuckle as he leaned back again in the tree. “It was, wasn’t it?” he asked, much more confident now. “Dear little Ciri. Little _Zireael_. Heir of Lara Dorren. The last of the line of the Gull.”

Looking down at the spoon in his lap, O’Dimm turned it over, seeming entranced, before picking it up and starting to gently tap it against the palm of his opposite hand. “You trained her as a witcher, did you not?” he asked, not looking at Geralt as he spoke. “Taught her the Signs, the skill of the blade. The sacred alchemy of your potions and decoctions. The tricks of the trade, hunting monsters for coin… Yet, you did not complete _all_ the same rites for her. All the same rights as for other recruits to your order, other… _male_ recruits. Am I right?” Turning his eyes towards Geralt then, he stared at the witcher, his expression smug, pausing in his spoon-tapping to focus his entire attention on the man standing below him.

“You did not subject her to the Trial of the Dreams,” he said. “Which is, if I remember correctly… the ritual which renders you witchers sterile.” There was a chilling malice in his expression as he stared down with his dark, knowing eyes, one that made the hair on the back of Geralt’s neck stand on end; he was not frightened of O’Dimm – at least, that was what he told himself – so he could not quite place why he felt suddenly so unsettled by the thought of their conversation continuing. Perhaps, he thought, his disquieted feeling came from knowing in his gut what was coming next, but refusing to acknowledge that something so despicable could rightfully cross anyone’s mind.

“There had to be a_ reason_ you neglected that,” O’Dimm continued, sliding his calloused thumb thoughtfully over the lip of the spoon. “When everyone knows that is by far the most _important_ part of becoming a witcher. So let me ask you something, Geralt… and answer truthfully, if you would. If you’d had your way, if nothing else was stopping you… would you have wanted to impregnate Ciri instead?”

Geralt stiffened, feeling his blood turn first to ice, and then to boil, his stomach churning at the sickening implication. “_What?_” he insisted, hissing the word, baring his teeth as his hand itched for his blade. He had expected the question, known it was coming, but it still did not soften the accusation, nor keep it from nearly raising the taste of bile to the back of his throat.

Seeing the witcher’s distress, O’Dimm grinned widely, no longer trying to hide his intent – to hurt, to harm, to drive the knife in as far as he could and twist with all his might. His countenance, once almost puckish, had quickly warped into that of a cruel Cheshire cat; his eyes, cold and hollow, were fixed fervently on Geralt, as if not wanting to miss even the slightest change in his distressed expression. “Come now, Geralt,” the demon pressed, wrapping his fingers around the head of the spoon, squeezing so tightly in his enthusiasm that his knuckles began to turn white. “Don’t say you’ve never considered it. Surely you’ve given it a _bit_ of thought. Especially considering… your current predicament, it’s impossible it wouldn’t have crossed your mind.”

“You’re sick,” Geralt hissed. “You’re fucked, O’Dimm. That’s my _daughter_ you’re talking about.” His hands began to shake at his sides, and he clenched them tightly, unable to decide if he wanted to reach for his blade or simply drag the devil from the tree and start waling on him with his fists. It was not the first time he had been accused of harbouring lascivious thoughts towards Ciri – many a well-meaning shopkeep had unknowingly called her his lovely young wife in their travels, a gaffe Ciri usually played along with, or other times laughed off as a simple mistake. But not all were so benevolent; there were many whose jabs were not so innocently misguided, those who sought to imply that their lack of common blood was proof enough that he had taken her in specifically to groom her – those who claimed he had trained her at Kaer Morhen with the sole intent of getting her alone on the road, eager to have his lustful way with her where she could do nothing to stop him.

Geralt had always thought his rise to affront at these suggestions had been something he could not control, a father’s reflexive reaction to allegations of ill intent where none existed. But the way O’Dimm said it, the language he used, the knowing look on his sickening face, made Geralt wonder if his true affront had come from the knowledge that, deep down, he had always wondered the same of himself: if he would not have taken Ciri on as an eager young lover, had she given any indication she would have him in that way.

“Be that as it may,” O’Dimm continued, waving his spoon in a lazy circle to move the point along. “I’ve seen the way you look at women. You’re a dog, Geralt. And Ciri… she’s a woman. A shapely woman, lithe and young… just the type you can’t seem to keep your hands off of.”

“I’ve_ never_ looked at Ciri that way,” Geralt growled, feeling his face burn hot as his blood seethed. O’Dimm was a master at planting doubt, but he was wrong – they were all wrong, all of them. He had never felt anything for Ciri but the love of a father for his daughter. “I would never… I _could_ never—”

“Oh don’t be so self-righteous with me, Geralt of Rivia,” O’Dimm snapped, the sudden change in tone making Geralt falter, surprised to have apparently struck a nerve with the infuriatingly even-tempered master of mirrors. “If she was anyone else’s child surprise you would’ve fucked her senseless ages ago. Just look at how you besmirched poor Deidre. What did Eskel do to deserve that?”

Geralt felt a knot twist in his stomach at the mention of Deidre, and he took a step back, swallowing hard as he felt the colour drain from his face at the painful memory. As O’Dimm had said, Deidre had been to Eskel what Ciri had been to Geralt – a young girl, othered by the circumstances of her birth, claimed from her royal parents to train with the order of the witchers. A girl Eskel had trained to follow in his path, and had grown to love, to the bitter end. A girl whose future Eskel had felt responsible for, wanting to ensure her happiness and success, just as any father would. And then, true to his nature, Geralt had come along, unable to resist the intoxicating draw of a beautiful woman – a beautiful woman like Deidre had been when he had thoughtlessly coaxed her into bed, caring nothing for the consequences of his actions, or how it might hurt Eskel or Deidre in the long run.

A beautiful woman, like what Ciri had become in the years since becoming Geralt’s ward.

“That was a long time ago,” Geralt muttered, his voice low, much weaker than he had intended. “Forty years. That’s… not the same. Not a fair comparison. I was… different, then.”

“Were you?” O’Dimm returned, quickly, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself at the question, sending a visceral shudder down Geralt’s spine at the disturbingly satisfied sound. “I don’t think so. Want to know what I think? I think, if you had your way, the line of the Gull would be _rife_ with white-haired wolf children. Am I very far off?” His wicked grin widened as Geralt’s face reddened again, the witcher’s ears burning as the twisted taunting burrowed beneath his usually steely skin, making him sick to his stomach with anger. “Of course, if your newfound _proclivity _is anything to judge by, then perhaps she’s already pregnant,” O’Dimm added. “And perhaps I’m simply the last to know. You did just visit her recently, did you not… _Gwynbleidd_?”

At this, Geralt let out a feral scream, all patience for conversation gone, before tearing the silver sword from his back and lunging blindly for the demon in the tree. Taking a mighty swing, he drove the blade down hard on the spot where O’Dimm sat, only to be staggered as his blow was met with a jarring _thunk_ and splintering of wood. Looking up, Geralt realized quickly that the branch he had aimed for was now empty, with O’Dimm having disappeared from the spot mere seconds before Geralt had a chance to reach him. Bracing his boot against the trunk, Geralt heaved at his sword, giving another angry shout, before prying it free just as the sound of O’Dimm’s chilling laughter picked up again from somewhere behind him.

“Temper, temper,” O’Dimm taunted, his gleeful smirk widening as Geralt turned to face him again. Geralt was seeing red now, blood red, but he gritted his teeth, fighting back the urge to rip the demon limb from limb. “I see I’ve managed to strike a nerve,” O’Dimm said, tilting his head to observe the witcher. “Pity… I thought we were having a delightful conversation. I suppose I’ve never been much good at reading people.” Chuckling again, he picked up his spoon, spinning it idly between his fingers, knowing full well he was fraying the witcher’s already raw nerves by making him wait. Then, after a moment of twirling, he stopped again, catching the spoon deftly in his hand, before taking another deep breath, turning his dark eyes down to Geralt once more.

“I can see we’re getting nowhere with this line of questioning,” he said. “So let me pose you a different question. Why _did_ you come here, if not to impress Ciri? Surely you didn’t come by just to reminisce about the good old days.”

Geralt held his ground, still gripping his sword, breathing heavily through his teeth. “Contract,” he repeated, his voice a low snarl. “Like I said. Came to see what was living in these woods. Hoped it was something else, but since it’s you, gonna have to kill you.” Raising his sword again, he took another step, preparing to strike once more at the Man of Glass – but he found himself stopped suddenly short as O’Dimm held up a hand, halting the swing of his blade mid-carve, freezing the forest around him in an unnatural, silent sojourn. Geralt growled at the vice, wrenching against the magic, but nothing he did seemed to do any good; he could feel his arms shackled above his head, held fast mid-swing by some invisible force, and it did not take long for him to realize that his entire body was in the same stasis, leaving only his eyes free to stare angrily up at O’Dimm.

“You know, that’s something I like about you, Geralt,” O’Dimm told him, letting his hand fall to rest in his lap again, holding the spoon like a lazy conductor’s wand against his opposite knee. “You’re very to the point. You don’t make people wait around to hear what you have to say.” Unfolding his legs, O’Dimm jumped smoothly down from the limb to the forest floor, the sound of his feet hitting the leafy ground barely louder than a cat dismounting a windowsill. Twirling the spoon with a roll of his wrist, he chuckled darkly, starting to tap it against his opposite palm, before taking his time to encircle the witcher in a slow, meticulous stride. Geralt could feel his lungs start to burn as he stood frozen, unable to speak or breathe, but O’Dimm did not even seem to care, taking his time to observe every inch of his sadistic trophy.

“Oh, Geralt,” O’Dimm tutted after a moment, clicking his tongue, a sound which made Geralt’s skin run cold. Moving around in front of him again, O’Dimm leaned down, as if hoping to catch some sign of struggle expressed in his frozen countenance. “Unfortunately, I’m going to have to keep you from fulfilling your contract,” he said, a wicked grin spreading across his unremarkable face, far too pleased with himself for Geralt’s liking. “For you see, I’ve just returned to this plane, and I have no intention of leaving it again anytime soon. So instead, I’ll make you a deal. You know a good deal when you hear one, don’t you?” Turning away again, O’Dimm took a few steps, pausing as he considered what to offer – then, seeming to settle on something, he spun back around, lifting his spoon with a dramatic flair as a wide, wicked smile began to stretch across his face at the thought of what was to come.

“If you turn around and leave these woods, pretend like nothing ever happened,” he began. “Tell the people of Marchen and Vizima that there’s no threat, or you simply failed to find whatever you came in here to look for… in return, I will grant Yennefer the one thing she has always desired. The one thing she has always wanted, but could never have of her own volition.” Allowing a moment to let the offer to sink in, O’Dimm hummed, his smirk widening to encompass what felt like his entire wicked face. Then, raising his spoon again, he gave a tiny wave, the simple motion lifting just enough of the magic to free Geralt’s mouth and nose from stasis.

Geralt took a deep breath as he felt sensation return to his face, his vision clearing as he felt his lungs fill up with air again. Then, looking up at O’Dimm with a hateful expression, he bared his teeth, sucking back saliva as feeling began to return to his numb lips. “What… could you possibly give Yen… that would make me… agree not to kill you?” he coughed, his voice rasping as he fought to growl the words past a throat that felt like it had just escaped a stranglehold. It was impossible not to realize how close he had come to death with O’Dimm’s seemingly minor spell, but he did not want to acknowledge it, not wanting to admit just how much power the demon truly had. The less willing he was to show his hand – his very real fear of the master of mirror’s capabilities – the more infuriating he was sure it would be to the demon, and the more mistakes he would hopefully be prone to make as a result.

His plan seemed ill-fated to work, however, as O’Dimm only chuckled in response to the question, tilting his head as he rested his spoon back in the half-gloved palm of his opposite hand. “Oh, Geralt,” he repeated, his disparaging tone doing better to throw the witcher off than any intimidation tactics. “You clearly don’t know me very well. I can do anything with the proper materials at my disposal. _Anything_. As for Yennefer…”

Trailing off, he took a step forward, reaching out a finger to gingerly touch the middle of Geralt’s forehead, and Geralt winced, expecting another bloody marking or full-body pain. But the pain never came – instead, he found himself suddenly transported somewhere else, somewhere far from the darkened forest and the spiteful presence of Gaunter O’Dimm, and he froze at the change, too startled to move, not trusting what waited with his first steps into this new reality. After a moment of nothing happening, he decided to take a chance, and, bracing himself, he began to slowly turn his head, only to realize that this was not a new reality at all.

Between the flickering logs on the fireplace, the lingering smell of spiced wine on the air, and the gentle lull of the rain on the tiled roof, he could tell that he was, somehow, back at Corvo Bianco. From where he stood, everything seemed to be in proper order, with nothing to suggest this might be some sort of vision or dream, and for a split second, he could not help wondering, faintly, if it was possible he had never actually left. Just then, the sound of Yennefer’s voice calling his name caught his attention, and he turned, looking back towards his wife, only to freeze just as quickly at the sight of her, his pulse thundering wildly in his ears as he watched her move around the table to greet him. He could feel his jaw tremble at the sight of the sorceress, his lips growing numb, his eyes starting to sting, and he let out a shuddering breath, unable to speak or move as Yennefer approached him.

“Geralt,” Yennefer repeated, smiling into his face. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Then, taking his shaking hand from his side, she brought it up to her lips for a kiss, before moving it down again to rest it gently against her visibly-pregnant stomach.

“I can reinvigorate her womb,” O’Dimm’s voice cut suddenly through the dream, causing Geralt to give a start, all good feeling at the sight of Yennefer so happy sucked instantly dry. This was nothing more than an illusion, he realized – a lie, a hallucination O’Dimm had planted to set him off his guard, and he, foolish and hopeful, had been only too happy to play into it blindly. Pulling his hand back from Yennefer’s stomach, he turned quickly, hunting for the source of the voice, trying to pinpoint a direction it might be coming from, though it seemed to be coming from all at once. “I can negate all the ill effects magic has had on her,” O’Dimm continued, his taunting words making the witcher’s face burn. “And you, with your newfound virility… well, I presume you can fill in the missing pieces.”

“No!” Geralt insisted, baring his teeth. “I don’t want your black magic, and neither does Yen!” Closing his eyes, he focused with all his might, forcing his mind back to his current reality – until, finally, he began to feel the warmth of the manor’s fire drain away, the smell of spiced wine slowly being replaced by the smell of leaves and mulch. Opening his eyes again, he stared contemptuously at O’Dimm, the same painful nerve flickering in his cheek as he gritted his jaw in defiance. “I came to do a job,” he said, breathing heavily through the strain. “That’s what I’m gonna do.”

O’Dimm’s expression had already begun to shift as Geralt turned down his initial offer, but at these last few words, his expression soured entirely, his nose flattening against his face in disgust as his thin lip curled in spiteful leer. “Always so stubborn, aren’t you, witcher?” he sneered, twisting his fingers around the spoon, squeezing so hard Geralt could see his nails blanch sickly white with the pressure. Taking a deep breath, O’Dimm stared the witcher down, his dark eyes intent, judgemental, knowing – then, without warning, he seemed to lose momentum, letting out his breath in a long exhale. Lifting the spoon again, he gave it a wide, careless wave, causing him to disappear from the forest floor, only to reappear again an instant later in the arms of the tree above them.

The transition was almost soundless, with only the small pop of something being sucked from reality to indicate he had gone, before he was back again with the noiseless grace of a cat, not even bending the branch on his re-emergence. The simple wave of the spoon seemed to have freed Geralt from stasis as well, and he stumbled, caught off-guard by the return of gravity, swearing under his breath as his sword immediately dragged his arms towards the ground. After fighting a moment to right himself, he stood up again, staying his sword at his side, looking up at O’Dimm once more, in case the demon had any more mind to argue before his head was sliced clean from his wicked body.

O’Dimm seemed significantly less concerned with this possibility, leaning his back against the trunk and picking at darkened threads in the grain of the spoon, seeming disquietingly at peace with the situation, as if he had known he would not be able to bargain with the witcher from the start. “Very well,” he said after a moment, not bothering to look down at Geralt this time as he spoke. “I gave you a chance. Now, my terms will change. As they must, when two parties cannot reach a mutual agreement.” Staring at the spoon, he held it thoughtfully between his hands, letting out a low hum as he pondered on its form.

“Yennefer _will_ be able to bear children, just as I said,” he continued after a moment. “But my offer will not be limited to just Yennefer anymore. _All_ magic users will be able to have children. Every lonely, barren practitioner whose abuse of magic has atrophied their reproductive organs… every wicked, seedless conjurer who ever wished to bring another life into this world… every witcher, withered by Trials, forced to steal babes from the arms of their mothers.” Trailing off, he paused again, waiting to ensure Geralt was invested, before he turned to look down at the witcher again, making Geralt’s skin crawl as the demon’s dark eyes fixed on him.

“I will grant this feat for all magic-users,” O’Dimm continued, morbidly pleased. “_If—_ they first destroy the child which you, Geralt, created by mistake. The child of witcher and human blood, whose existence defies every tale ever told. The child which now resides in Shani’s womb, its heart beating in time with hers.” His words struck Geralt like a pike through the heart, and he breathed in sharply, feeling his blood turn to ice, each syllable crushing, weighing him down, until he found he could barely keep his knees from buckling. He drove his sword into the soft ground, leaning on it to keep himself upright and standing, listening, feeling his head start to spin as blood pumped thunderously in his ears, his heart hammering as if it were trying to leap free of his chest.

“Some, admittedly, may have no inclination to act upon learning these terms,” O’Dimm continued, every hateful word like a flaming arrow loosed inside Geralt’s skull. “With those, you shall be safe. But some, like Yennefer, desperate for children… or perhaps those with more wicked intentions, mages wishing to spread their despotic seed, wreaking a swath of rape and terror through the helpless masses, women and young girls powerless to defend themselves… how desperate do you think they would become, hearing that one small obstacle is the only thing that stands in their way? Knowing that one small life is the one thing keeping them from a triumph they thought they could never achieve?”

“You… treacherous piece of shit…!” Geralt snarled, barely able to force the words past the heavy beating of his heart. He felt choked, helpless, angry, confused, every emotion as powerful and unclear as the last, with so many fighting to express themselves at once he did not know which he could possibly process first.

O’Dimm scoffed at Geralt’s despair, unmoved, before turning his attention back to his spoon, holding it up again over his head, as if to admire its form against the backdrop of the trees. “Do with that knowledge what you will, witcher,” he said, sounding now almost bored of their game. “You may slay me now, if you wish… but know that only I can undo this. And until I do, Shani and your child will be hunted like dogs, tracked down by magic users more desperate and powerful than you could ever imagine.”

“You can’t do that!” Geralt shouted, furious, his fist clenching so tightly around his sword he knew he would have cut his palm with his nails had he not been wearing gloves. “Shani has nothing to do with this! She’s innocent! You can curse me, O’Dimm, but leave her out of it!”

O’Dimm chuckled darkly at the objection, not bothering to look down at Geralt again as he responded. “Aren’t they all innocent?” he asked, indifferently. “You should have accepted my first offer.”

Geralt felt his heartbeat filling his ears, cold dread pumping through every inch of his body, his tongue numb behind his teeth, his mind frozen, throbbing, as if someone had wrapped a wire around it and pulled taut until it bled. “What do I have to do to undo this?” he hissed, working hard to keep his voice from shaking, though whether it was from fear or anger was difficult to tell.

O’Dimm grinned at the change of heart, turning his dark eyes down to gaze at the man standing below him. “Ah, a businessman, I see,” he smirked, balancing the spoon between his index fingers. “I’m a man of simple wants, Geralt, as you know from our last encounter. For me to undo this, you must complete three tasks. There are no half-answers, however, so bear that stipulation in mind… complete all three, and you win, fair and square. But fail to complete them, and there will be dire consequences.”

Geralt frowned at the loaded offer. “What kind of consequences?” he asked, warily. “Mages are already trying to kill Shani’s baby. Can’t be worse than that.”

“Oh, but it can,” O’Dimm returned, turning to let his legs dangle over the edge of the branch. “Things can _always_ be worse, Geralt. That’s just a sad fact. But complete these tasks three, and you won’t have to worry about that. I will happily remove the metaphorical bounty on dear Shani’s head, and everything will go back to the way it was.” Holding up the spoon again, he swept it across in a whimsical, paintbrush-like curve. “Do the tasks before time runs out, and you’ve nothing to fear,” he added, grinning. “The child can be born normally – barring any natural complications, of course… and everything will go back to how it was before. You, Yennefer, and Shani, all living in harmony at Corvo Bianco.”

Geralt wet his dry lips at the answer, taking a moment to consider before responding. “So either I complete these tasks in five months, or Shani’s baby dies,” he concluded, speaking slowly.

O’Dimm chuckled. “And people said you were dull,” he returned, amused.

“Have to tell me what the tasks are first,” Geralt insisted, taking a determined step forward. “Never agree to anything I don’t know all the terms of.”

“We both know that’s a lie, witcher,” O’Dimm returned, opening his dark eyes wider. “And besides, that’s not how this works. You know that. I make the rules, and if you agree, I will tell you what must be done.”

Geralt huffed, gritting his teeth at the clearly slanted playing field. “And what happens if I refuse?” he asked, wondering if there was still time to kill O’Dimm before the curse took hold.

O’Dimm shrugged, seeming unconcerned that Geralt was obviously stalling. “Then you have a very difficult five months ahead of you indeed,” he answered, frankly. “The tasks are simple, Geralt. Complete them and you and your redheaded love are free. Only if you lollygag about on completing them will there be dire consequences.”

“Complete these three tasks,” Geralt repeated, stiffly. “Tasks you won’t tell me about until I agree. All the while keeping Shani safe from the mages who will be trying to kill her in the meantime.”

O’Dimm grinned, his wicked smile spreading across his sallow face. “Well I couldn’t make it too easy, could I?” he asked, sounding entirely pleased with himself. “Wherever’s the sport in that?”

“Sport,” Geralt spat. “Is that all this is to you?”

“But of course,” O’Dimm returned, simply. “You think I do this for my health?”

“I know you don’t do it for mine,” Geralt growled, feeling a muscle twitch in his jaw.

O’Dimm chuckled at the retort, stashing his spoon in his belt at last. “Witty, witcher,” he answered, steepling his fingers like the peddler he pretended to be. “So, what shall it be? Will you take my offer? Complete my tasks and spare Shani the heartache of being hunted like a dog? Or will you wait out the next five months in fear, never knowing where the next attack may lurk, or when the next moment of peace may be safely found?”

Geralt set his jaw, his upper lip trembling as it began to curl into a snarl – he hated what O’Dimm had reduced him to, a man forced between a rock and a terrible hard place. To give up the idea of Yennefer regaining her fertility in order to defeat an evil being was one thing, and hard enough, but being forced to choose between Shani’s child’s life and defeating the demon was something else entirely. It was unfair, being forced to choose with no insight into what O’Dimm’s tasks entailed; the last time he had been put in a similar position, he had been given errands which had nearly killed him, or had forced him into uncomfortable situations he would never have agreed to otherwise. Still, it was difficult to think of anything worse than watching Shani’s baby killed by some crazed mage, and he took a deep breath, feeling his heart clench, his stomach twist, his throat seizing up in an effort to stop the words before he could make the mistake of speaking them.

“I’ll do the tasks,” he announced, speaking so low he barely recognized the weak voice as his own.

O’Dimm leaned forward on the branch at these words, cupping a mocking hand around his ear. “What was that?” he asked, grinning widely. “You need to speak up, witcher. I’m afraid you were mumbling.”

“I said I’ll do the tasks,” Geralt repeated, louder this time, spite turning his voice into a hateful growl. “I agree to your terms, O’Dimm. I’ll do the tasks.” No sooner had he said this when he felt a sudden, searing pain radiating up from his left palm, and, lifting his hand, he watched in horror as the leather glove began to blossom with crimson, the gruesome stain trickling down his wrist until he could see blood dripping from the lip of the gauntlet. Tearing the glove from his hand, he hissed, staring at the enormous, bloody gash, the pain from the wound as if a rusted knife had been ripped across the skin, cutting it down to the bone. The edges of the broken skin bubbled angrily as he stared down at the wound, as if his blood were physically boiling where O’Dimm had opened up the cut, and he looked quickly back up at the master of mirrors, clenching his bleeding fist to his chest.

O’Dimm smirked at his surprised reaction, drawing his spoon from his belt again and giving it another careless wave, and as he did so, what appeared to be a scroll of contract materialized before him, unfurling to its full length in midair in front of him. Plucking the document out of the air, O’Dimm looked over it, seeming pleased, before turning it around so Geralt could see its contents more plainly. The body text of the contract was too small to read from the forest floor, but at the bottom of the page Geralt could clearly make out what appeared to be his own signature, signed in what he could only guess was his own dripping, dark-red blood.

“So happy to be doing business with you again,” O’Dimm grinned, giving a flick of his wrist to roll up the contract again. “Now, to get down to the business of your tasks. For your first task… hmm.” He hummed, sliding the contract back into his satchel, grinning contentedly in the knowledge that he was wasting the witcher’s precious time. “Let me see,” he said, tapping his stubbled chin in thought. “Ah, I know. I’ve got a good one for you.” Laying the spoon across his lap, he lifted his hands, rubbing them together, before clearing his throat as he readied himself to recite the first of Geralt’s tasks.

“_Mentor and daughter have borne this same_; s_tole by three sisters who share a name. Two are slain, one remain, find her and trinket regain_.”

Geralt gritted his teeth at the rhyme, feeling his blood pump furiously in his ears, making the riddle sound like garbled nonsense as he clenched his hand more tightly against his chest. “_What?_” he hissed. “What the hell does that mean?”

O’Dimm chuckled, picking up the spoon and balancing it between his index fingers again. “Think on it, Geralt,” he told him, simply. “It’s not my job to solve the riddles. Only to provide them.”

“The Crones,” Geralt answered, forcing himself to think. “Ciri slew two of them, but the third one escaped. Made off with Vesemir’s amulet. You want me to get it back.”

“Very clever, witcher,” O’Dimm conceded, smirking as he spun the spoon lazily between his fingers. “That one’s relatively straightforward, however. Now for your second task…” He paused again to consider, letting his hand drop back to his knee as he thought, but the spoon did not fall with it, continuing to turn cartwheels, suspended in the air. Geralt felt his stomach drop at the sight of the slowly-spinning spoon, wondering why he had never seen the demon show this trick before – if O’Dimm had been holding back so simple a feat from the witcher’s knowledge, he had to wonder what else the master of mirrors could do that he had no idea about. “Ah, I know,” O’Dimm finally said, drawing Geralt’s attention back to his face, before raising his hands again to press them together once more, as if in a mockery of prayer.

“_Wolf School witchers left are three; to finish, two or four must be. Child or friend, rite or rend; alter forever, or end._”

Geralt frowned at the riddle, running it over in his mind as he tried to puzzle it out. “You want me to force a conscript through the Trials?” he finally asked, feeling a sickening sensation rise in his gut at the thought. The secrets to the Trials had been lost years ago, destroyed with the rest of the knowledge stolen by the Salamandra at the massacre of Kaer Morhen; Yennefer had managed to piece together a few of the elements, and Geralt had found a few others tucked away in a cavern in Kaedwin, but most of the secrets had been trusted to witcher elders, those whose job it had been to pass them on when the time came. Vesemir had been the last of that generation, but he had been the fighting instructor at the time such secrets were given out to his brethren, so he had had no reason to know such things when so many others had been counted on to remember them.

“I… can’t do that,” Geralt answered, shaking his head. “Can’t train a child to go through the Trials in five months. Witcher training takes years, and even then…” He stopped, trailing off, his wounded hand uncurling faintly against his chest, before he looked up at O’Dimm again, narrowing his eyes. “Ciri,” he breathed, feeling the same cold nausea as before starting to collect in his stomach. “You… want me to give Ciri the final Trial? Turn her into a full-fledged witcher?”

“Perhaps,” O’Dimm returned, seeming less invested in the solution. “I _suppose_ you could put Ciri through the final Trial. Technically that _would_ fulfil the prerequisite. Though there’s also another answer you haven’t quite hit on yet.”

“You want me to kill Eskel or Lambert?” Geralt asked, feeling his heart clench in horror at the thought.

O’Dimm grinned at this, his wicked mouth seeming to stretch to encompass his entire face. “If that is what must be done, then who am I to dissuade you?” he drawled, sounding far too pleased that Geralt had come to this conclusion on his own. Letting out a chilling, venomous chuckle, he rocked the spoon between his fingers, the wooden head blurring as it tapped metronomically against his gloved palm and back again. “Come now, Geralt,” he pressed, the name sliding off his tongue like ice down the witcher’s spine. “It can’t be _that_ hard a task to undertake. After all, how many witchers have already fallen to your blade? Gweld… Letho—”

“Too many,” Geralt snapped, his jaw clenching at the memory. Letho had been easy enough to fell, a self-driven murderer with no concern for the lives of others, but Gweld had been Geralt’s best childhood friend, and the pain at the memory of the boy’s blood on his blade still ached as fresh as the day it had happened.

O’Dimm’s smirk widened at Geralt’s distress, and he paused in playing with his spoon, resting it thoughtfully between his fingertips. “Perhaps,” he answered after a moment, sounding unfazed with the pain he had caused. “Or perhaps… yet not enough.”

“What’s the third task?” Geralt insisted, eager to get this over with.

O’Dimm shook his head at the demand, tilting the spoon in time to match its movement. “Ah-ah, witcher,” he scolded, as if speaking to a naughty child. “Not yet. The third task I will reveal once the first two are completed.”

Geralt gritted his teeth. “That’s not fair,” he hissed.

O’Dimm shrugged, seeming unconcerned with his thoughts. “That’s the way it works – you know that,” he said, sounding almost dismissive. “That’s the way it’s always worked. Think back, Geralt. Olgierd did not reveal to you his last request until the first two were already granted.”

“Olgierd’s tasks didn’t have my child’s life at stake,” Geralt snapped back, feeling anger rising steadily in his chest. “Those tasks had no time limit. They weren’t the same. You know that, O’Dimm.”

“What I know or don’t know makes no difference,” O’Dimm returned, threading the handle of the spoon between his fingers so it rotated in a slow somersault across his knuckles. “As it was then, it is now. Complete the first two tasks and the third will be revealed. And, witcher…”

Catching the spoon by the handle, O’Dimm held it up in front of his face, grinning at the witcher as he waved his second hand in front of it, revealing a long, thin reed flute in its place. Then, lifting the instrument to his lips, O’Dimm blew a few high, haunting notes into it, and Geralt shivered as he heard the music echo through the forest around them like an icy breeze. As he listened, he began to hear a soft, barely discernible crackling noise coming from somewhere in the trees around him, and when he turned to look, it was to see that the leaves had begun to wilt and brown, as if autumn had arrived several months early with only a few chilling measures of the demon’s flute. Geralt felt his blood turn to ice at the sight of the previously vibrant leaves withering and falling, and he looked quickly back up at O’Dimm again, wondering if this was just another trick, or if the demon truly did have such an extreme influence over the flow of time.

O’Dimm chuckled at Geralt’s expression, lowering the reed flute from his lips once more. “Don’t delay,” he told him, ominously, grinning down at him. “Your time is running out. Godspeed, Geralt… and good luck.” Then, lifting the instrument in salutation, he disappeared again, leaving only the last, fading echoes of his sinister laughter in his wake.


	11. Dandelion

A deathly silence prevailed in Marchen’s forest in O’Dimm’s absence.

For a moment, nothing seemed to breathe, as if afraid even one sound might chance to draw the demon back. The birds hid motionless in their nests in the trees, the squirrels burying their heads in the bushels of their tails, shielding their eyes, as if hoping by doing so, the Man of Glass might leave them be. Geralt had never felt truly alone before, surrounded on all sides by nature like this – but now, as he stood petrified by the weight of what lay on his shoulders, he felt as if he had become part of the forest itself: numbed to the world, eyes unseeing, ears still ringing with the laughter of Gaunter O’Dimm.

He began to take a step forward to leave, but stopped, feeling his feet holding to the ground like lead. Ciri would want to know what happened here – and in truth, she deserved to know. She would be worried about him if he did not return to tell her what he found in the forest, but, though he knew it would be much quicker to return to her in Vizima than travel all the way back to Toussaint just yet, he found he could not convince himself to start for the Nilfgaardian palace. He had been given a deadline for his tasks, and he could feel his time already slipping away, dwindling down, even as he stood here, desperately debating his next move.

Time had always felt abstract to Geralt – plentiful, meaningless, easily dismissed – but now he could almost feel it moving around him, flowing through his fingers like sand from an hourglass. In the unnatural silence of Marchen’s forest, he could almost hear the decay of leaves beneath his feet, the rutting of worms in the dirt below him, the sounds of the birds in the trees drawing breath. The concept of death was suddenly very near and very real for him, and time a terrifying absolute, unforgiving in its resolve to consume everything it came into contact with.

He had to return to Shani, he knew. He had to tell her what he had done. He had to warn her, to tell her that her life and their child’s life were now in danger, all because he had been too stubborn to listen to Yennefer and refuse Ciri’s contract – and now, his curiosity had ultimately driven him into making a deal with the devil.

The journey home was a near-blur, with Geralt pushing Roach as hard as he had ever ridden her, not bothering to avoid the main roads this time as he pressed her on towards the south. He blew past carts and knight patrols, splitting walking-troupes and caravans like alley pins, having no time to consider circumnavigating such things if they insisted on using the same paths he needed to get home. More than once he felt Roach starting to wane beneath him, and he pushed her on with a cast of Axii, feeling a twinge of guilt in his gut as he heard her protest at being forced to maintain the breakneck speed. Still, he knew that sparing even a moment’s rest would only harm them all in the long run, and he dug in his heels, stopping only when they were forced to pause at the banks of the Yaruga to wait for a ride across.

Roach slept like an infant on their way across the river, her head resting in Geralt’s lap as the boat rocked with the gentle waves, but they quickly picked up their pace on the other side, with the witcher digging his heels hard into his horse’s flanks. He only stopped for water along the road when he knew Roach needed it, drinking from streams and filling his water-canteen when convenience dictated he might, and he barely ate anything more than the provisions already stashed in Roach’s saddle-bags, having no time to stop along the way and pick up further supplies. Most of their rations he allocated to Roach, knowing she needed the running strength more than he did, and he hardly allowed them chances to pause for sleep, except when he felt he might collapse from the saddle in exhaustion.

Days blurred together into nights as they galloped, driven on with the flame of desperation, until the dusty yellow path and familiar archway of home suddenly leapt out before them, springing up like a spectre in the night. Geralt had hardly noticed the fields of green, the vibrant peacock colours of Beauclair as he had ridden past, but the cobblestones of Corvo Bianco’s walkways echoed like thunderclaps in his ears, unmistakeable as the pair made their way onto the grounds at last. Roach staggered as she felt the stones beneath her hooves, hot and exhausted from her lengthy run, and Geralt quickly leapt down, pulling her towards the stable to allow her respite before continuing on towards the main house, himself.

He could feel his head spinning as he walked, his stomach wrenching like a beast had torn it in two, and he stumbled as he pressed forward, feeling his legs start to waver like water beneath him. He was starving, exhausted, unkempt and unclean, his mouth feeling like swamp moss as he forced himself onward, pressing a hand to his aching side and wheezing as he clutched at the fence to steady himself. “Yen,” he croaked, coughing for breath, knowing there was no way anyone could hear such a weak and withered sound. He could feel his lungs burning as he took a few more steps, seeing black spots forming in his vision as he walked, until he finally fell up against the manor door, coughing loudly as he lifted a weak hand to bang desperately against the wood.

“Yen,” he called again, feeling the cool wood press against his overwarm face. He could almost envision falling asleep here, the thought so tempting he nearly gave into it for a moment – but he was saved from his fate as the door swung open, and a woman’s voice screamed as he caught himself on the doorframe, barely managing to keep himself from falling onto the floor. Yennefer held up a warding hand at the frightening-looking visitor, her palm glowing blue as she faced off with her unwelcome guest, and Geralt felt his medallion hum at the surge of magic, sending a shock through his body that woke him just enough to allow him to straighten again.

“_Yen_,” he repeated, just forcefully enough for his normal voice to come through for a moment. That one sound was apparently all it took to alert the sorceress that her guest was no stranger, and she quickly dropped her hand, moving forward to instead grab the witcher and drag him into the house. He could hear the door closing behind him as she pulled him into the front-room, propping him against one of the dining-chairs, before taking a step back to allow him to stand on his own, as much as he could. Yennefer’s face was pale as she stared at her husband, anguished with worry, her violet eyes wide, and Geralt took a deep breath, feeling something rattle in his chest as he looked around for a familiar shock of red hair.

Shani was sitting at the table as he was pulled inside, but she quickly stood as soon as he began to look for her, and he wet his lips as she finally entered his line of sight, holding out a hand to her like a man possessed. “Shani—” he choked, the sound coming out like the first gasp of air from a nearly-drowned man. He coughed again, wheezing as he clutched his chest, straining for breath as he reached for the nearest chair, using it to keep himself upright as he fought the pull of gravity against his weary knees. Each painful inhale and spoken word felt like a coal set ablaze in his stinging lungs, and he swallowed hard, huffing a ragged breath, before reaching out towards Shani again, barely noticing as Yennefer took a wary step in front of her.

“Yen,” he begged, his ravaged voice sounding more beast than man. “I have—I have to warn you… I have… to warn Shani—!” Coughing again, he doubled over, gripping the back of the chair, feeling his heart hammering in his ears as he fought back the urge to vomit. He was parched – no, dehydrated, he realized – his vision swimming as his stomach pulsated in time with his heartbeat, the gnawing pain of a body not properly fed for a week making his legs go numb beneath him. “Listen,” he panted, grunting as he forced himself to speak again. “Listen… please. I need—I need to tell you. Ciri, she—” He groaned, gritting his teeth, dropping his head as his ears began to ring in pain. “_Fuck_,” he spat, a few fine drops of spittle spraying onto his lip, all his dry mouth could spare. “Ciri… told me about… Man. Man of Glass. O’Dimm. He—cast a spell, said that… mages…”

He coughed again, before taking a deep breath, the strain of everything finally causing him to lose his knees beneath him, and Yennefer exclaimed in distress as he fell to the floor, rushing forward to kneel beside him, checking him over for damage. He blinked as he looked up at the sorceress, stunned, watching as she cleared his hair from his face, speaking words too jumbled by his woozy mind for him to understand. “We’ll get you some water,” she finally said, the first words to cut through his disembodied haze. “Some crackers and bread. Something you can keep down. Shani? Marlene?” Shani was quick to respond to her request, leaving the room to look for water and bread, and, turning her gaze to her husband again, Yennefer frowned, reaching to the tabletop to grab a napkin and using it to dab at the sweat that soaked the collar of his gambeson.

“What happened, Geralt?” Yennefer pressed, her violet eyes intense. “What did you do to yourself out there?”

“Needed to get… home,” Geralt rasped, feeling his lungs cinch like something was squeezing them, each breath causing a burning pain in his side that made him grit his teeth in agony. “Needed… to tell… Shani… she’s… I’m…” Wetting his lips again, he looked around for Shani, finally finding her as she crouched to give Yennefer her requested cup of water. “You’re… in danger,” he croaked, nearly choking as Yennefer began to tip water into his dry mouth. He tried to reach up to take the goblet from her, but his hand shook too much to even meet it halfway, his arm feeling like a lead weight was pulling it back to the carpet, and he quickly gave up, allowing Yennefer to tend to him.

“There,” Yennefer said, bringing the goblet away from his lips after another moment. “Now what’s going on, Geralt? What’s got you so upset?”

“O’Dimm, said… mages… but only if Shani… doesn’t have hers,” Geralt choked, causing Shani and Yennefer to exchange confused glances, each looking as concerned as the other. He coughed again, harder this time, earning a soft hand on his chest from Yennefer, but he shook his head, trying to force a creeping darkness from the edges of his vision. “_Look_,” he insisted, starting to raise his hand again, feeling the weight of the world dragging it down against his efforts. Bringing his shaking glove to his teeth, he pulled it off, spitting it out onto his stomach, before holding his hand up for Yennefer to see, turning his palm to face her. Yennefer frowned as he showed her his hand, taking it gingerly between her slender fingers, staring first at his palm, and then at her husband, as if unsure what she was meant to be looking at.

“Look—_l-look_,” Geralt pressed, nodding towards his hand. “See? He did that, it—it’s magic, it’s…” He stopped as he noticed Yennefer’s expression, before turning his gaze to instead look at the back of his trembling hand, realizing with a sudden cold dread that it no longer hurt the way it had in the forest. Turning his hand around, he stared at his palm, feeling his stomach drop as he realized the wound had disappeared, all trace of it wiped from his skin as if it had never existed at all. “But… it was there,” he insisted, clenching his hand as he looked up at Yennefer again, begging her to believe him. “He… took blood, for… tasks, he made me… promise—”

“Who?” Yennefer insisted, clasping his curled hand in hers. “Who took blood, Geralt? What did you promise?”

“Master Mirror,” Geralt rasped, heaving another deep breath as his throat scratched raw, threatening to close. He could feel himself making less sense the more he went on, but he knew he had to keep trying. “If—they find out, then Shani… they’ll try to kill Shani,” he pressed. “And I’m… I antagonized him, I… I turned him down. So he put… curse… on me, on you… all magic users, all… sorceresses… everyone can… They can all…” He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut again, bracing as another wave of nausea made his vision swim. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, they… they’re coming, they’re… coming, the Man… O’Dimm said… Shani…”

“He’s delirious,” Yennefer fretted, looking over to Shani for help. “I can’t understand a word. Do you think he’s been poisoned? Gods…” Letting out a hard huff, she turned her attention back to Geralt, cupping his face in her hand as she pursed her lips, refusing to allow herself to cry in her worry. “Bloody giant centipedes,” she swore, brushing her thumb anxiously across his cheek. “Don’t know why there’s so many of them out here. _Damnit_.”

“I don’t think it’s poison,” Shani countered, reaching past Yennefer to check Geralt for a temperature. “He’s running a fever, though that doesn’t tell me much… witchers’ bodies don’t always work the same way as ours.” Narrowing her eyes at Geralt, she frowned, resting her curled hands pensively against her knees. “You said you went to see Ciri?” she asked him, earning a woozy, delayed nod in return. Shani sucked her lip, thinking a moment, before letting out a soft, disconcerted breath. “It’s not centipede venom,” she said, shaking her head, causing Yennefer to look up again, her painted brows furrowing. “It’s a month’s ride out to Vizima and back – two weeks each way. That’s what he told me before he left. It’s only been a little over three weeks since then. He’s half-dead from exhaustion and starvation, not poison.”

Yennefer huffed at the news, her feathered collar ruffling like a fuming bird of prey. “I’d kill him myself if he wasn’t already on death’s door,” she spat, looking down at Geralt in indignation. “Bloody idiot. Help me get him up, Shani. He needs bedrest if he’s to sleep this off.”

“He needs to rehydrate first,” Shani advised, reaching out to help Yennefer lift the witcher under his shoulders. Geralt groaned as he was pushed up, doing what little he could to help, and Yennefer huffed as she sagged beneath his weight, coughing at the smell of his armour. Shani sucked her lip as she heaved her half upward, giving only a soft grunt as his knees buckled again, dragging her down – but she quickly regained her composure, shaking her shaggy bangs from her eyes and looking over at Yennefer again. “We should give him a cool bath,” she told the sorceress, her voice blessedly calm, keeping things under control. “See if we can get him to drink more water. Maybe some juice if he can keep it down. And he needs a good dose of vitamins— something with niacin, to help him regain his energy. Meat is a good source of that – do you think we can get him to eat some meat?”

Yennefer laughed at the question, the sound coming out as a sharp bark, strangled with stress. “He loves meat,” she answered, nodding in agreement. “I often have a hard time getting him to eat anything else.”

“Good then,” Shani said, letting out another huff as she readjusted the witcher on her shoulders. “Then as soon as he has the strength, we’ll get him some chicken to eat. Maybe some pork or mutton. In the meantime, let’s get him in the bath and see what we can do from there.”

Yennefer nodded at the sound instructions, thankful that Shani was there to help – the sorceress had always known Geralt took poor care of himself on the Path, but she was usually helpless to do anything about it, forced to make do with offering a few healing spells and then waiting for him to patch himself up with potions. Healing had never been her strongest suit – she had always been better with offensive spells and portals – but she hated the feeling of helplessness it gave her, having to rely on the expertise of others. She had taken it on herself a few years back to learn the basics of witcher alchemy, hoping she might be able to better assist when situations like these arose, and it had taken a good deal of time and effort to learn the basic ingredients of Geralt’s most important tonics, memorizing the brewing and bottling times to ensure maximum effectiveness.

It had annoyed her to no end, then, when, after a bit of study, she realized that Geralt was barely competent in the same subject, himself. It was not that he was incapable of learning it, she knew – only that he was lazy. She supposed that was mostly Vesemir’s fault, with the old Wolf putting far more emphasis into fighting than books, but that did not stop her from chastising Geralt at every opportunity, reminding him that he needed to hone his other witcher skills if he wished to survive. Perhaps there was a potion which could have saved him from a condition like this, she thought; perhaps, if he had only put a little more effort in… but the idea was quickly pushed from her mind as they finally set him down at the edge of the tub, and she let out a huff, wiping herself down, before focusing on the lake just outside the manor gates, closing her eyes as she readied the spell to collect water for her husband’s bath.

Geralt hissed as he felt cool water on his skin, opening his eyes as he felt Yennefer start to dab him down with a soft, wet cloth. He had nodded off for a moment, it seemed, and in that moment had somehow managed to lose his clothes. He blinked as he watched the sorceress run a soft towel over his chest, careful not to scrub too hard on any of his obvious bruises, before he realized that another cool cloth had been draped around his neck, and another on his forehead, both clearly Shani’s doing. “Shani,” he coughed, his voice still hoarse, causing Yennefer to look up at the sound, before reaching out to grab a cup of water sitting beside the tub and lift it to his lips, coaxing him to get down as much as he could.

“Don’t speak now,” Yennefer told him, softly. “Once we get you cooled down, I’ll have Marlene make some chicken soup. If you can keep that down, you’re already doing better.”

“But Shani—” Geralt said again, only to find himself hushed once more.

“Shani’s gone to mix you some supplements,” Yennefer informed him, setting the cup aside again. “A mineral draught she says will help recover your strength. She’ll be back soon to help me get you up to bed.” Picking up the washcloth, she dipped it again in the soapy water, starting to gently wash his neck and shoulders before letting out a soft sigh, seeming lost in thought as she moved the towel in gentle circles. “Shani’s very smart,” she commented after a moment, seeming to be speaking more to herself than Geralt. “And kind. We’re very lucky to have her around. We really should do more to tell her so. A crib is hardly sufficient thanks for everything she’s done for us.”

Yennefer paused as she said this, frowning a bit, reaching up to wipe a smudge of dirt from Geralt’s cheek, before she let out a soft sigh, wetting the cloth again and starting to gently wash his reddened ribs. “Or perhaps I’m being ridiculous,” she reasoned, her voice softer now, making Geralt have to strain to hear. “Perhaps I’m fooling myself with frivolous logic, and I’m simply trying anything to entice her to stay. Entreating her presence with… baubles. Trinkets. Hoping she doesn’t realize I’ve nothing of substance to offer in exchange for the peace of mind she brings.” She hesitated again, as if having never considered it that way before, her pretty hand hovering for a moment against his chest as she stared at the medallion around his neck.

“Hope for what, I’m not sure,” she added after another moment. “Perhaps her presence is merely… a distraction. A welcome one, from these worries I can’t shake… worries of us growing apart again, as we did with Ciri.” She paused again, her lips thinning into a soft line, her gaze seeming miles away as she stared down at her husband. Geralt stared back at her, watching the subtleties of her face, his eyes never leaving her, even as she reached forward to push a lock of wet hair behind his ear. Yennefer tilted her head as she stared at the witcher, running her nails through the tangles of his beard, before letting out another soft breath, dipping her washcloth in the soapy water and starting to gently pat him down again.

“It’s not fair to put that on her,” she determined, shaking her head at the thought. “I realize that. Having a child around isn’t… salvo. I made that mistake once already. And I can’t help worrying…” She stopped again, thinking a moment, before letting out another breath, heavier than the last. “I worry this might simply turn into a repeat of what happened with Ciri,” she admitted, softly. “That once Shani leaves, and takes her child with her… we’ll have nothing in common again, you and I. Perhaps I’m simply prolonging the inevitable with desperate acts of altruism.” She frowned at the thought, before looking up at Geralt again, as if unsure he was even listening.

“Do you think that’s what will happen?” she asked, the solemnity in her voice making his heart cinch with guilt.

Geralt frowned at the question, his hands clenching weakly around the edge of the basin as he fought to think how to respond. He could hear what she was saying, but he was having a hard time processing most of it through his haze; even so, the look on her face spoke volumes enough for him to understand her pain, and he took a deep breath, clearing his throat as he prepared to attempt an answer. “Yen…” he said, his voice still hoarse, and she looked up quickly, seeming surprised to hear him speak. He paused, unsure what to tell her, unsure if he even had anything of value to say; he wanted so badly to give her hope, to tell her everything would be all right; to fill her ears with sweet nothings, anything that might alleviate her distress and make her smile again.

But that was not what was needed right now, and he knew what he had to do, as little as he knew she would like it. “Shani’s in danger,” he repeated, managing to rasp out the words before coughing again. “We have to… help. Protect her from… curse. Baby…” He swallowed, feeling his throat burn with every word, and Yennefer sighed, seeming less disappointed than resigned to his response.

“I shouldn’t be putting this on you now,” Yennefer told him, shaking her head as she petted his wet hair away from his face. “You’re in no state to hear me air my woes. I’m sorry, Geralt. Let’s get you to bed so you can eat something and get some rest.” Dropping her washcloth to the edge of the tub, Yennefer stood to her feet, lifting her hands to remove the water from the basin, and Geralt gave a shiver as the cold air hit him, watching as the water floated out of the bath in an immense, crystalline marble. The liquid sphere swirled eerily in shape, polished as glass as Yennefer guided it out the open window, until Geralt finally heard the soft splash of it being deposited onto the hill outside the manor grounds where she usually put it.

“Come on, Geralt,” Yennefer said, picking up a dry towel and starting to gently pat him down. “Shani will be back soon, and gods know she’s already seen your penis enough for one lifetime.”

It would have been funny, had Geralt been in any health to laugh, but as it was all he could do was give a weary grunt of acknowledgement, letting his head fall onto his wife’s shoulder as she pulled his arm around her, heaving him up once more from the tub. Sitting him on the edge of the basin, she began to help him into a pair of soft underwear, before looking up as Shani finally arrived back, ready to help bring the witcher to bed. It took great effort to get him to the master bedroom, and he let out a deep sigh as he finally sank into bed, fighting to keep his eyes open as he felt Shani press a spoon of chicken soup to his numb lips, prompting him to eat. She left him no room to speak between bites of broth, even if he had had the state of mind to try to warn her again, and she smiled sadly down at him as he finished, giving him a gentle kiss on the forehead before standing again to leave.

Geralt let out a soft grunt as he watched her go, before settling back against the pillows again as Yennefer came to sit beside him on the bed. “Yen…” he told her, gritting his teeth as another breath in burned needles in his side. He coughed, feeling her slender hand brush worriedly against his face, her dainty fingers cool against his warm, sickly skin. “Shani is… in danger. Mages… curse…”

“Not now,” Yennefer said, shaking her head, tracing her finger over a cut on his lip. “You’re delirious, Geralt. Get some rest. Shani will be here when you wake, I promise.”

“But…” Geralt groaned, letting out a sharp breath, feeling a faint nausea start to ache in his gut, threatening to empty it of the chicken soup and water he had managed to keep down thus far. “I swear, he took… contract,” he breathed, forcing his eyes to stay open. “The Man—”

“_Stop it_,” Yennefer hissed, causing Geralt to look up at the sound, closing his mouth. He had heard Yennefer take this tone before, but usually only with those who antagonized her for being a sorceress. She rarely took this tone with him – this tone of ice, the tone of Tissaia de Vries – and he held his breath, sealing his lips as he waited for her to continue speaking. “Listen,” she told him, the frost in her voice slowly fading, her obvious concern for him returning. “Shani is already under enough duress without you pulling something like this and adding to it. Something clearly happened with Ciri’s contract, Geralt, but now is not the time to talk about it. Once you’ve had some rest and calmed down a bit, then we can speak on it. Not before.”

“Can’t wait for that—” Geralt started to say, but Yennefer quickly shushed him again, pressing a slender finger to his lips.

“_Hush_,” she told him, firmly. “I can make you fall asleep with magic, but I’d much rather you went to sleep on your own. You’ll get better rest if you fall asleep naturally. Now stop talking.” Moving her finger away from his lips, she leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to them instead, and Geralt grunted, still unsettled, but unable to argue the reassuring feeling of her lips on his. “There’s nothing more to discuss for now,” Yennefer told him, brushing his hair away from his face again, tracing her finger along his cheek as his heavy lids fluttered, fighting desperately not to close. “We’ll talk more once you’re better. A few days of rest and proper nutrition and you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

“It’s not fair… Yen,” Geralt mumbled, his numb hand searching clumsily for hers along his chest. Yennefer frowned, taking his hand in hers and bringing his calloused knuckles up to her lips for a worried kiss.

“What’s not fair?” she asked him, gently.

Geralt sighed, finally giving up and allowing his eyes to close. “You deserve kids more than anyone,” he told her, his breathing shallowing as he began to drift off to sleep. “Should’ve… just said yes. It’s not fair… you have to suffer… for my stubbornness.”

Yennefer paused, concerned for a moment, unsure if there was something more to her husband’s words than just the ramblings of a delirious man in desperate need of sleep. Then, leaning down again, she pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, brushing her hand back through his snowy hair as she rested her head against his shoulder. “I’d suffer your stubbornness any day, if it meant being with you,” she told him quietly, unsure if he could even still hear her through the veil of sleep. “I love you, Geralt. There’s no one else whose stubbornness I’d rather suffer through.”

* * *

Sleep came fitfully for the witcher, rife with bad dreams; he dreamed of darkened forests, of clearings echoing with the melody of O’Dimm’s flute. The ground in his dream was treacherous beneath his boots, making it difficult to find solid purchase, and when he looked down, he saw with a wrench in his gut that he was standing on thousands of mismatched spoons. The forest floor reminded him of Marlene’s old cellar, so littered in hoarded silverware it was impossible to see the floor, and as he took a step forward, he felt the hair on his arms stand on end as the spoons beneath his feet gave a chilling rattle.

The sound reminded him strongly of the wind clattering through bones of the wartime dead, of abandoned bodies hung from the trees, left so long that carrion had stripped them down to nothing but skeletons. Looking up into the canopy, Geralt turned, scanning the wilted branches for any sign of the wicked Man of Glass in his dream; O’Dimm could manipulate dreams, he knew – he had tormented Professor Shakeslock in that way, twisting the blind scholar’s dreams with visions of a fabricated daughter’s death until the man had gone mad with imagined grief. Geralt himself did not like the thought of being caught in a dream of the demon’s making, but he knew there was little he could do about it so long as he still had a contract to fulfil.

The trees had been stripped down to their autumn colours, just as he remembered from the last time he was here – but as he took another step forward towards the treeline, he began to feel something change in the air around him. Looking up into the trees again, he started to watch as the leaves began to curl and whiten, crackling with ice and withering into nearly nothing as the first frost of winter peeled at their brittle edges. Letting out a shaky breath, Geralt watched as it gathered in front of his face in an icy mist, and when he took a step back, he stopped suddenly short as he felt the familiar crunch of powdered snow beneath his feet. Looking down, he realized with a start that the carpet of spoons had become obscured with blinding powder, and when he turned his startled gaze up again, he noticed that the branches of the trees had become laden with snow as well.

The wind leapt up from the forest floor with a howl, slashing at the witcher’s exposed face and throat and biting at his legs, its icy claws burrowing under his armour to freeze his skin as the temperature continued to drop around him. Geralt gritted his teeth at the sudden gale, shielding his eyes as a flurry of white began to fill the air, and as he stood in the darkened wood, he began to hear something approaching through the trees, something with the sound of heavy boots crunching their way across the carpet of snow-laden spoons. Despite his limited vision, Geralt knew there was nothing out here but the trees – trees and darkness in every direction, with no civilization at its end to offer respite. There was nowhere for anything to move out here, no space between the trees for even the witcher to squeeze, and as he squinted into the squall through lashes crystallized with ice, he began to watch as something emerged from the forest’s claustrophobic depths; something large, rigidly gaited, smelling strongly of blood and steel.

It had been years since Geralt had last set eyes on the face of the figure from the woods, but the memory of his encounter still hung hauntingly fresh in his mind; Jacques De Aldersberg looked as though he had been preserved in ice, left to lie in the snowy wasteland where the witcher had slain him, pierced through the heart with a silver sword like the monster he had become. His skin was taut and withered, his lips blue, nearly black from frostbite, but the most disturbing part of him were his hollow eyes, his piercing blue sclera boring out from blackened holes in his emaciated, corpse-like face. Geralt suppressed a shiver as he watched the Grandmaster approach, his hand itching at his side for his sword, though he knew it would be pointless to slay the spectre in his dream. This was a trick, he knew – it had to be, a tactic to put him off his guard – but he had no idea what O’Dimm could seek to achieve by making him face off with a man he had not thought about in so long.

“What do you want?” Geralt snapped. The question was short, perhaps a bit unkind, but he had no patience for playing games. “Don’t regret killing you, if that’s why you’re here.”

“I didn’t expect you to regret it,” De Aldersberg answered, his voice making his skin crackle as he spoke, as if a layer of ice were breaking away as he moved. “I would be a fool to expect human emotions from someone who has none.”

“Dunno why you’re here then,” Geralt spat, unable to help wondering if his reactions were some instinctual rise to the defensive. “Been dead too long to be relevant now. Salamandra’s disbanded. Fringe elements turned to dealing fisstech. Everything your people stole is gone.” He stopped, watching De Aldersberg as the Grandmaster continued to stare back at him, his frosty eyes unblinking, punctured chest not moving with the presence of breath. Each snowflake in his beard and brows was perfectly set, a macabre vision frozen in time, and Geralt felt himself shiver at the sight, though whether it was from the cold or the corpse was difficult to tell.

“All your dreams of ubermen came to nothing,” Geralt continued, filling the uncomfortable silence. “Soon there’ll be no more witchers, either. Everyone lost, because of you.”

De Aldersberg said nothing for a moment, before he finally shook his head. “Not everyone,” he returned, calmly.

Geralt frowned at the answer. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he insisted.

De Aldersberg’s frozen lips thinned, his body giving another unnerving crackle as he shifted in place. “Not everyone lost,” he repeated, more firmly. “One man won. Because of you. You did exactly what he wanted.”

Geralt felt his stomach twist at the answer, unsure what it meant, but dreading asking further. “Who?” he demanded, knowing he was playing into a trap, but too stubborn to let it go. “The King of the Hunt? Didn’t do what he wanted. Eredin wanted me to hand you over. Wanted to use your Elder Blood to make navigators, like he tried to use Ciri’s.” He could feel his heart racing as he spoke, wanting desperately to believe his own words, but he could feel doubt mounting with every claim, and he swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to beg for clarity. “I denied him,” he insisted. “Refused to give you over. Killed you myself so he wouldn’t be able to use you to his end.”

De Aldersberg gave a bitter grunt at these words, his icy lips twisting in a look of amused disdain. “Eredin was never there, witcher,” he returned, almost spitting the last word, shaking his head as another cold chuckle rolled up from his frozen chest. “You know as well as I that he was flesh and blood, not spectre. It’s no great secret that your greatest fear, your greatest hatred was for the Hunt, even back then. You made it so easy for that to be used against you that you played right into his hands.”

Geralt faltered at this, taking a stunned step back. “I don’t understand,” he admitted.

“Of course you don’t,” De Aldersberg answered, coldly. “You only see what you wish to see. That’s why he finds it so easy to manipulate you.” He paused as he said this, lifting his noble chin to expose a blackened strip of missing flesh, a frostbitten hole where his windpipe had been, torn out by scavenging necrophages. “Have you not noticed that every threat to his power is sooner or later eliminated?” he asked. “Every being who might have the capability to interfere with his plans, wiped from the Continent, or their lives made hell?” He sneered at the thought, his black lip curling over bleached teeth in rotting, frozen gums. “Every inconvenience, no matter how small, has been summarily handled,” he continued. “Many by you, witcher. I was not even the first. There were many before me. Vilgefortz was one.”

“Vilgefortz?” Geralt repeated, narrowing his eyes at the unwelcome name. “Vilgefortz killed my friend Regis. He tortured Yen, tried to kill Ciri so he could use her blood to gain her powers. I killed Vilgefortz because he deserved it.”

“And because he was instrumental in eliminating O’Dimm’s pawn from the most powerful seat in the Continent,” De Aldersberg added, making Geralt’s brow furrow deeper. “Vilgefortz helped dethrone Nilfgaard’s Usurper. In return, you did away with Vilgefortz. He was too powerful to be allowed to live, if his goals did not align with O’Dimm’s.”

“But…” Geralt frowned, turning the information over in his head; De Aldersberg was making sense, he knew, but he would not allow himself to become consumed with conspiracy theories when he still had no idea who was pulling the strings of this dream. “I killed Vilgefortz to protect Ciri,” Geralt argued. “Nothing else. I made that choice.”

“O’Dimm led you believe that, I’m sure,” De Aldersberg returned, nodding in agreement, the ice of his desiccated neck crackling loudly, making Geralt’s stomach turn. “Made you believe it was your idea. Just as he did when you killed me.” Turning his face away, he stared into the darkened forest, the winter wind wailing as snowflakes swirled around his unblinking expression, and it took Geralt another moment to realize he had no eyelids with which to blink. He held back a grimace at the Grandmaster’s state of decay, wondering if he had truly been left out by his followers to rot like this, or if this was simply the gruesome visual O’Dimm had decided would be most effective to torment him with.

“I was always destined to die by your hand,” De Aldersberg continued, pulling Geralt back in again, retrieving his thoughts from where he had nearly lost himself in memories of foes left unburied. Wicked men deserved to rot where they fell, he thought, with no one to bury or mourn them, but he could not help wondering if that was how he would die one day – left out to decompose in the sun, picked apart by carrion and ravaged by necrophages, until there was nothing left of him for Yennefer to inter. “My usefulness to him had run its course, so he brought in his new pawn to dispose of me,” De Aldersberg went on. “I was used, Geralt— just as you were used— but my plans were ill-fated. I failed to produce. And I was too powerful on my own to be allowed to continue living in my failure.”

He paused at the thought, before grimacing, tilting his head to stare pensively between the trees, the ice in his neck crackling like the sound of grinding glass as he moved. “I had proven as a child my capability to travel through time,” he said, his voice oddly distant, as if speaking more to himself than to Geralt. “And as an adult I retained that skill, along with the ability to navigate through space and between worlds. My Elder Blood made me too much of a threat to be allowed to exist, if I were not working for him directly. So he turned on me… abandoned me. Then used your worst fear to convince you to slaughter me.”

He sneered as he finished, turning his pale eyes down to the snow-covered spoons, and Geralt faltered, realizing how much of what the Grandmaster was saying made sense. It was twisted and unsettling, realizing how much of what he had once thought of as circumstance had been planned from the start, but with what he knew of O’Dimm’s powers, he supposed he had been foolish not to suspect his influence all along. “He gave you the choice of doing it yourself, or allowing him to take my soul,” De Aldersberg continued after another moment. “You chose to be my executioner. Because you’re a callous freak. An emotionless golem. All you know how to do is kill. It’s your basic nature.”

Geralt’s frown deepened at the string of insults, but he pushed it aside, realizing that was not the important part of De Aldersberg’s argument. “I killed you because you were too dangerous to let live,” he answered, nearly spitting the retort through gritted teeth. “You conspired to overthrow Foltest. Waged war with the Scoia’tael. Released mutated soldiers into the streets, terrorizing innocents. You needed to be stopped.”

“By whose determination, witcher?” De Aldersberg snapped, turning his icy eyes up again. “Who made you judge, jury, and executioner? What moral code drove you to decide you should be the one to end my life?” As he spoke, he took a step forward, causing Geralt to take an unconscious step back, keeping a wary distance between himself and the frozen corpse. “Foltest stood in the way of progress,” De Aldersberg spat, baring his teeth in disdain. “O’Dimm’s progress. He had to be eliminated. I failed to produce on that front, but Emhyr succeeded. He used Letho to eliminate Foltest, and gained favour from O’Dimm in that way—but then, when Letho became inconvenient, you were there to eliminate him as well.”

A sharp crackle like the spiderwebbing of glass came from his frozen chest as he spoke, and when Geralt looked down, he saw that a dark line of sludge-like blood had begun to seep from where his sword had bisected the Grandmaster’s heart. “It always comes back to you in the end,” De Aldersberg hissed, drawing Geralt’s eyes back to his sunken face again. “Disposing of those he no longer has a usefulness for. I don’t know how you don’t see that.”

Geralt shook his head, feeling his heart start to beat faster, the chill of the winter wind whistling past his ears, making it hard to think. It was getting colder, he realized; he could feel his exposed skin starting to chafe, but he shook his head, clenching his hands at his sides as he tried to fight off the creep of frostbite. “But… what does this have to do with my tasks?” he insisted, hearing his voice waver as his teeth chattered. This was only a dream, he told himself; none of this was real, no matter how much it hurt. “How does… killing the Crone, or… making Ciri a witcher… help O’Dimm?”

“Open your eyes, Geralt,” De Aldersberg told him, his voice growing strange and hollow over the howling of the wind. “The clues have been all around you from the start. You just refuse to connect them.”

“What?” Geralt demanded, lifting a hand to shield his stinging eyes. “What clues? What does any of this have to do with you?”

De Aldersberg chuckled, the sound dark, bitter, sending a chill down Geralt’s spine, before he watched as another sharp crackle sent a second globule of congealed blood sliding down the front of the Grandmaster’s ruined chestplate. “You should’ve asked me that while I was still alive,” De Aldersberg told him. Then, taking a step back into the snow, he began to fade once more into the trees, the blizzard swallowing him as a flurry of white lashed at Geralt’s face, obscuring the Grandmaster from view.

Geralt shouted in pain as the snow raked his skin, feeling his fingers start to freeze in his gloves, but he lurched forward after De Aldersberg regardless, making his best effort to follow the corpse into the woods. “Wait—!” he shouted, but he could no longer hear himself over the howl of the storm. The gale had become too powerful, the snow too thick, the wind too cold to breathe, and he could feel his lungs starting to burn as he took a breath, ice crystals freezing on his tongue.

“De Aldersberg!” Geralt shouted, all sound drowned out by the raging flurry.

“Alvin… wait—!”

* * *

Geralt opened his eyes with a start, drawing in a sharp breath and finding the air blessedly warm. The forest of the nightmare had disappeared as soon as he opened his eyes, replaced instead by the walls of his bedroom, with the soft orange glow of candles taking the place of darkness and snow. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest still, the glowing eyes of De Aldersberg hanging fresh in his mind, but as he stared up at the ceiling, he began to feel the weight of the nightmare slowly start to melt away, the chill of winter leaving his frostbitten limbs as reality began to set in again.

It was only a dream, he told himself; an illusion, nothing that could harm him in the real world – a manifestation of his stress and anxiety, taking the form of something he had been thinking about recently. He had, barely a month ago, held back on telling Shani about Alvin’s fate, and his feelings of guilt had likely turned into something subconscious, taking the first opportunity to warp into an idea more sinister than the sum of its parts. It was becoming difficult to remember what De Aldersberg had even said to him in the dream now; the contents of the nightmare had begun to fade as soon as he opened his eyes, and as he lay awake, it began to leave him more and more, until he could barely remember anything about it except the eerie collection of spoons.

He felt something shift in the bed beside him, and, looking over, he saw Yennefer sitting on the edge of the bed, her violet eyes soft as she watched him, running her fingers through his long white hair. As soon as she saw he was awake, she smiled down at him, her expression gentle, before laying down beside him, nestling her chin in the crook of her elbow as she rested her arm across his chest. “You’re awake,” she said, speaking softly, not wanting to overwhelm him so soon after waking.

“Mm,” Geralt grunted, reaching up to rub at a bleary eye. “How long have I been out?”

“A few days,” Yennefer answered, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his face. “Shani had me wake you every so often so we could feed you and give you some of her nutrient blend, but… you were still a bit out of it the entire time. I doubt you remember.” She paused, her gentle gaze fixed on his face, as if working to memorize every line and scar, before she seemed to remember something, turning away and instead searching for something on the bedside table. “Speaking of your mineral blend,” she said, picking up a cup and bringing it around to him again. “Here. Drink up. It isn’t pleasant, but it’s been helping you regain your strength.”

Geralt frowned at the cup, unsure what to expect, but he took it from his wife’s hand anyway, bringing it to his lips and tipping it down, only to choke as the taste of it hit his tongue. It was bland, reminding him of times he had slept on the side of a dusty road, only to wake with the taste of silt in his mouth, and the texture reminded him of wet sand, another unfortunate experience from a life on the Path. He made a face as he rolled the mixture across the roof of his mouth, but he swallowed it down, handing the cup back to Yennefer with a sigh before resting his head against the pillow again. Yennefer seemed pleased that he had gotten the mixture down, and she set the cup aside on the nightstand again, returning her head to his chest and giving a soft sigh as she traced her finger over his collar-bone.

“You were talking in your sleep,” she told him, quietly. “Something about… Jacques De Aldersberg? It must have been a terrible dream you were having. You haven’t said anything about him in years.”

Geralt grunted at the observation, wondering how much of his dream had been spoken aloud. “Just a nightmare,” he said, reaching to take hold of her hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. His arm ached as he moved it, but he huffed through the pain, pressing her hand against his scraggly cheek, realizing for the first time just how long his beard had gotten. “Haven’t had them since the Hunt was after Ciri,” he added, still trying to find his froggy voice. “Just… worried about things, I guess.”

Yennefer frowned. “About Jacques De Aldersberg?” she asked.

Geralt shook his head, running his thumb along the side of her hand. “About some… choices,” he said, letting out a sigh. “Wondering if I made mistakes.”

Yennefer’s lips thinned at the thought, her pretty brow furrowing as she nestled her head against his shoulder. “We all make mistakes,” she told him, frankly. “It’s how we react to our failures that shapes us.”

Geralt faltered at her words, wondering for a moment if she would say the same if she knew what he knew – about Gaunter O’Dimm, about the curse on Shani, about how he had turned down an opportunity for Yennefer to regain her lost fertility. He had assumed at the time, as he always did, that he knew what was best for both of them, and that Yennefer would have had the same objection to O’Dimm’s offer that he did. After all, he had seen the result of deals made with O’Dimm for the sake of happiness, the sake of love, and how badly doing so had turned out for Von Everec in the end. Olgierd had been willing to sacrifice everything to ensure his life with Iris, and in the end, he had wound up with no brother, no wife, no fortune, and ultimately, no heart with which to mourn them.

Geralt paused as he thought about Von Everec, remembering suddenly the blood price O’Dimm had demanded for the fulfilment of his wishes: the life of a loved one in exchange for a life together with Olgierd’s love. By comparison, O’Dimm had only asked of Geralt that he walk away, with no other stipulations mentioned; it was unnervingly tame considering Von Everec’s debt, especially with what O’Dimm had offered in return. At the time, the only thing Geralt could think was what havoc O’Dimm might wreak, if allowed to remain free – but now he realized he had granted the demon his freedom anyway, and in return had received nothing but a curse to break.

“Yen…” he started to say, speaking slowly, feeling as Yennefer shifted against his shoulder to look up at him. He paused, wondering how to word his question, feeling that no matter how he said it, it would come out wrong. “If… something happened to Shani’s baby,” he said, choosing his words as carefully as he could. “And… it didn’t make it, but… you could have kids, then… y’know, your own kids… would you want that?”

Yennefer fell silent at the question, and Geralt felt his stomach clench, knowing he had struck a nerve. It had been a stupid thing to say from the start, he realized, but the fact that it was him asking just made it all the worse. Yennefer had never given any indication that she wished ill will on Shani’s baby, and Geralt had been treading on eggshells this entire time in response, hoping the precarious balance might hold until the child was born. Now, he felt as if he had broken something unmentionable, reached into Yennefer’s logic and snapped something holding together their house of cards, and he held his breath as he waited for her answer, wishing he could turn back time and take the question back.

“That’s a horrible thing to ask,” Yennefer finally said, her voice much softer than he had expected. She paused, and Geralt could feel her expression shift against his shoulder; it was hard to tell what she was thinking without being able to see her face, but her silence was enough to let him know his question had clearly upset her. After another moment, she pulled her hand away from his face, sitting up in bed and tucking her hands in her lap as she stared across at the far wall. “Why would you even think about that?” she asked, her voice more insistent this time. “I don’t want to take the child _away_ from her, Geralt. I just…” She stopped, turning her gaze to her lap, fidgeting anxiously with her hands as she tried to decide what to say.

“I’m not sure what I want,” she admitted after a moment, still not looking back at him as she spoke. “I wish I could have had more time to prepare, rather than having it dropped on me so suddenly. I wish… we’d had a chance to talk about it, to decide if we wanted to pursue this as part of our lives. With enough time, and preparation, and thought, I might’ve even been in support of some sort of surrogate. But…” She paused again, staring down at her lap, her hands frozen mid-twist as she considered what she wanted to say. “I know Shani’s just going to leave as soon as the baby is born,” she said, her voice growing quiet again, the sound so soft it made Geralt’s heart hurt to hear it. “I don’t want to take the child _away_ from her, Melitele forbid – not if she wants it – but…”

Yennefer stopped, letting out a long, quiet sigh, and Geralt frowned, wondering what could be coming next. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, shaking her head, finally turning to look back at him again. “I’m not sure what I feel. I haven’t… given it any thought, I suppose. I’ve been… trying, Geralt, so very hard, to be happy for her, and you, and your child. I thought… if I just _told_ myself I was happy about it, then… perhaps I wouldn’t have to feel otherwise.”

“But you do,” Geralt observed, his brow furrowing in a solemn line.

Yennefer nodded, her violet eyes straying, seeming lost for a moment in thought. “I do,” she admitted, sounding half regretful at saying it out loud. “I’m not sure exactly _what_ I feel, though. I’d… have to give it a bit more thought.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, looking down and allowing silence to take hold. It was the least he could do after asking such a question, short of telling her exactly why he had asked it, but she had taken it in a much safer direction than he had anticipated, and he was not eager to bring the topic up again so soon. He paused as he thought, taking a deep breath, before he suddenly looked up again, narrowing his eyes as he realized something. “Where’s Shani?” he asked. “Still asleep? What time is it?”

“It’s past midday,” Yennefer answered, quickly, seeming just as eager to find another topic to change to. “Shani is downstairs. We had a visitor arrive, so I left them alone to give them time to talk. I wanted to see if you were awake, anyway—”

“A visitor?” Geralt asked, cutting her off before she could finish. He sat up quickly, hearing something pop loudly in his back in protest, ignoring Yennefer’s scandalized look at the sound as he swung his still-sore legs out of bed. He wavered as he stood, pushing past the darkness at the edges of his vision as he gained his feet, before feeling his stomach growl angrily as he moved to the clothing-chest at the foot of the bed, throwing it open. “How long have they been down there?” he insisted, pulling his shirt on over his head. It was hot in here, unnaturally hot, and he felt himself growing out of breath, but he swallowed the feeling down, reaching next for his pants and starting to pull them on as well. “Did you leave them alone? Did they come to see Shani specifically? What did they say?”

“Well… yes,” Yennefer said, clearly flustered by his reaction. “I mean—no, they didn’t, but… Geralt, I don’t—”

“Where are my swords?” Geralt insisted, looking around anxiously. “Had them on when I got home. Where’d you put them?”

“By the door, where you always leave them,” Yennefer answered, standing from the bed to meet his level. She was still much shorter than he was, even wearing her boots, but her presence more than made up for her height. “Geralt, I don’t understand. Why are you upset? You weren’t awake yet, so I thought—”

“Need my swords,” Geralt pressed, cutting her off again as he headed for the door, throwing it open and making his way out into the front hall. He could hear the sound of voices coming from the breakfast-nook, and he grabbed his swords from the rack by the door, slinging them over his shoulder as he went to intervene. He could hear Shani’s laughter coming from the nook as he crept closer, and he felt his nerves prickle as it was joined a moment later by the voice of a man – he remembered distinctly what O’Dimm had said about the offer extending to mages and witchers as well, and he felt his gut twist at the thought of some mage charming Shani, only to turn on her once he had gained her trust.

Stopping at the edge of the alcove, Geralt drew his sword soundlessly from its sheathe, holding it at his side as he took a deep breath before stepping into the entryway, ready for whatever awaited him. Shani looked up as she saw the witcher enter, her pretty smile faltering as she noticed the sword at his side, before her worried gaze returned to his face, her expression falling to a frown at his lethal expression. “Geralt,” she exclaimed, pushing herself quickly to her feet – or as quickly as she could, though she seemed to be having difficulty. Her companion was quick to assist her, rushing forward to support her elbow and waist, before looking up at Geralt as well, seeming less surprised than Shani by his shabby appearance.

“Geralt, you look _awful_,” Dandelion informed him, his feathered brow furrowing at the sight of his friend. “Yennefer told me you hadn’t been feeling well, but I thought she was exaggerating. I didn’t realize she was exaggerating to make it sound _better_ than it really was.”

“Dandelion?” Geralt breathed, dumbfounded by the sight of the bard, and Dandelion gave a chuckle at the look of bewilderment on the witcher’s face.

“Who did you think it was?” Dandelion asked, releasing Shani as she placed a hand on his shoulder, indicating for him to let go. “Emhyr Var Emreis? Good gods, Geralt. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Making his way around the table towards Geralt, he threw his arms warmly around his friend, pulling him into a tight, fond hug as the witcher gave a soft huff, half joyed, half dazed. He could feel his head spinning at the bard’s embrace, reminding him that he had not eaten a proper meal in quite some time; while his adrenaline had allowed him to forget about that long enough to come to Shani’s aid, he now found the sensation returning. Still, he could not put aside the feeling of relief at seeing his old friend again, and he dropped his sword to the floor with a clatter, pulling Dandelion into a warm, firm hug in return.

“Dandelion,” Geralt repeated, still too stunned to think of anything else to say, holding onto him tightly and causing the bard to give a soft cough of a laugh at the closeness of the embrace. Geralt pulled away as he heard Dandelion protest, not wanting to overwhelm him so soon after his arrival, but he found he could not keep the foolish grin from his face as he looked his friend over, still not quite believing he was really there. It had been a long time since he had last seen Dandelion; he had spent a bit of time with the bard after the final fight with the Hunt, but his separation from Yennefer had taken up most of his focus after that. He had allowed himself to drift away from his friends as he sought to find himself in the sorceress’ absence, but he realized now, with a pang of guilt, that he had never remembered to return to Novigrad once he was done.

“Good lord, Geralt,” Dandelion frowned, cupping his hands to Geralt’s waist. “You’re as thin as a rail! With all these women around to look after you, you’d think you’d be fed to death! What happened?”

“Long trip to Vizima,” Geralt answered, letting out a weary chuckle. He knew Dandelion would never accept such a vague explanation, but he could feel his legs starting to wane under him the longer he stood. Dandelion seemed to realize this, as he quickly stepped back, allowing Geralt to pass, before following behind him like an eager duckling as he sat down at the table to eat. Settling into a chair beside the witcher, Dandelion beamed as he watched his friend eat, every so often looking up to check on Shani before returning his attention to Geralt again. Geralt faltered as he met eyes with the bard, wondering if Dandelion was waiting for him to say something before he spoke again, and he cleared his throat, swallowing a large bite of dumpling before taking a breath to speak.

“What made you decide to visit?” Geralt asked, not bothering to cover his mouth. Yennefer was not there to scold him, after all, and he was far too hungry to care about his manners right now. Picking up the pitcher of apple juice, he poured himself a cupful, downing half of it in one eager draught, before grabbing the tray of mutton and scraping a third of it onto his plate. “Thought you were busy in Novigrad,” he added, tearing off a strip of mutton with his fork. “Heard the Chameleon was doing well. Figured you’d be too busy to stop by.”

“It _is_ doing well,” Dandelion confirmed, nodding at the observation. “But I’m never too busy to make time for old friends. And I’m here because Yennefer asked me to come. She sent me a letter saying you missed me something _awful_.” He smirked as he said this, chuckling a bit, raising his puckish brows as Geralt looked up at him again. “Not that I blame you,” he added, cheekily. “I know how much you enjoy listening to my ballads about our adventures together.”

“Don’t remember saying that,” Geralt answered, tearing a soft roll in half with one bite.

“You’ve said it with your eyes, my friend, if never with your tongue,” Dandelion returned, picking a grape from a bowl of fruit and popping it into his mouth. “But anyway, it isn’t all about you. I also came to see Shani. Yennefer told me she was staying with you for a while, so I thought it would be a great opportunity to catch up.” He paused as he said this, before looking over at Shani again, who offered him a small smile, a faint blush touching the tops of her cheeks. “As it turns out, there was a lot more to catch up on than I thought,” he added, smiling back at her fondly. “It seems Yennefer wasn’t… _completely_ forthcoming about the specifics of Shani’s stay in her letter.”

“Julian had no idea I was pregnant,” Shani explained, tickled.

Dandelion laughed at the memory, reaching out a hand to rest it eagerly on Geralt’s arm. “You can imagine my shock, Geralt,” he said, still chuckling. “When I saw her coming to greet me, my first instinct was to run for the hills! I knew it wasn’t mine, of course – I haven’t been with anyone but Priscilla lately – but still, to see your friend after so long, and suddenly she’s halfway to motherhood—wow!”

“Julian felt it kicking,” Shani added, turning her hazel gaze to Geralt again. He paused, his hand freezing on his cup, and she smiled across at him, resting a hand on the curve of her stomach as she waited for a reaction. “It wasn’t a very hard kick,” she added, as if to ensure he had heard what she was telling him. “Just enough to remind me it’s really still in there… just in case I forgot.”

“It’s kicking now?” Geralt asked, sitting up a bit straighter, as if hoping to see into her lap. Shani chuckled at the earnestness of his tone, running a thoughtful hand over her bump, before looking up with a smile as the soft sound of footsteps rounded the corner to join them in the nook. Geralt turned when he saw Shani look up, only to feel his face flush as he watched Yennefer walk in, remembering with a pang of guilt how wildly he had acted when she had come to collect him from the bedroom earlier. He was quick to turn his gaze down as Yennefer approached, before looking up again apologetically as she settled in beside him, bookending him between herself and Dandelion as the sorceress turned her gaze up to him, her expression stern.

“I see you’ve found our guest,” Yennefer observed, her voice perfectly even. “And with blessedly little bloodshed, I might add.” She smiled as she said it, but Geralt could sense her disapproval through the politeness of her tone, and he turned his eyes down again, picking up his fork and returning to his food. He was already nearly full, having all but gorged himself at the first whiff of Marlene’s cooking, but he felt there were still some empty corners he could stand to fill before he was done. Turning her gaze to Dandelion, Yennefer folded her hands in front of her on the table, smiling across at the bard as he looked curiously between the two, seeming to realize he had missed something.

“I hope you found the trip tolerable,” Yennefer told him, causing him to lift his chin, grinning at her over Geralt’s head. “I know it’s a long ride from Novigrad. I appreciate you coming down on such short notice.”

“When did you invite him?” Geralt asked, forgetting for a moment to cover his mouth.

“Finish chewing before you speak, please,” Yennefer told him softly, before looking up at Dandelion again, her violet eyes narrowing as she thought back to the date of her letter. “I invited him down more than a month ago,” she answered after a moment. “Right before you took that contract for the vampire. You sounded so sad when you spoke of how long it’d been since you’d last seen him, and… well, I thought another friendly face might help convince you to think twice before taking another contract which might be your last.”

“Those were her exact words,” Dandelion agreed, giving another chuckle. “I had to wrap up a few things before I left, but I came as fast as I could once those were done. I figured Yennefer wouldn’t ask me to come down unless it was something important.”

Geralt frowned, making sure to watch his manners as he ate, feeling Yennefer’s eyes on him again. “Has anyone else come around?” he asked, looking up at Shani, who seemed surprised by the question. “Anyone other than Dandelion? Maybe while I was asleep?”

“I assume you mean Regis,” Yennefer answered, causing Geralt to look over at her, her lips pursing at the thought. “But no. No other visitors apart from Dandelion. I assumed he would be enough.”

“Is Regis coming?” Dandelion asked, looking up at Geralt again and raising his brows. “I’d love to catch up with him too while I’m here. I haven’t seen the old man in ages.”

“No,” Geralt answered, shaking his head. “Sent a letter, but never heard back.”

“Well, that’s disconcerting,” Dandelion said, frowning a bit. “I hope he’s alright. Were you expecting anyone else?”

Geralt paused, considering, before looking up at Shani again, only to find her eyes already on him, watching him as he thought. He wanted to warn her about the curse, about O’Dimm and the contract and the tasks, but he found, as he stared at her across the table, that he could not quite find the words to tell her any of those things. There was something strangely off about the whole situation, an uncanny feeling he could not quite shake, and when he thought about it, he realized that everything since his encounter in Marchen’s forest had been almost unnervingly… normal. It had taken him a little over a week to return home from Marchen, and a few days after that to rest and regain his strength, and in all that time, it seemed not one mage had come to call at O’Dimm’s prompting; not one sorceress had stopped for a visit, or tried to harm Shani in any way.

He faltered as he thought, feeling unease start to creep in, before he turned to look over at Yennefer again, who looked up as she felt his eyes on her, meeting his gaze. He had mentioned to Yennefer barely half an hour ago the idea of having children of her own, and she had still seemed completely oblivious to the fact that it was possible, albeit through horrible means. If O’Dimm had begun spreading word about the curse, then the Lodge would undoubtedly be the first to hear about it, and the first to inform Yennefer about it, either for her own sake or for Shani’s.

Geralt felt his hand clench subconsciously at the thought, remembering the blood debt O’Dimm had taken from his palm, and how the cut had been entirely healed by the time he arrived home, with not even a scar to prove it had ever happened. With no mark on his skin and no response from the world to show that something had been put into motion, there was little he could put his finger on to prove his encounter with O’Dimm had even been real. Perhaps it had all been a dream, he thought; his nightmare of Jacques De Aldersberg had felt frightfully real at the time, and it had taken place in the same forest clearing where he had supposedly encountered O’Dimm. Not only that, but the uncanny phrasing of Peter’s last words still hung fresh in his memory, his warning a bit too specific to Geralt’s own knowledge of O’Dimm’s workings for it not to have been a product of his own consciousness.

“…No,” Geralt finally said, shaking his head. “It’s… nothing. Just… a bad dream, I guess.”

“Well that’s a relief,” Dandelion returned, grinning back at him. “I was starting to worry I was intruding.” Geralt looked up at the comment, wondering when the last time was that Dandelion cared if he was intruding on something, but he found his curiosity cut off as the bard reached forward, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. “Bad dreams or not, I’m glad you’re doing better,” he said, giving his friend a sincere nod. “You’re my bread and butter, after all! I’d hate to have to find a new muse this late in my career.”

“Nobody else you can embarrass with your tripe?” Geralt smirked, watching as Dandelion’s expression twitched at the descriptor. “Sure to be plenty of others who’d love to have you tell the world about them jerking off.”

“That ballad is one of my finest, thank you,” Dandelion sniffed, retrieving his hand to smooth his cravat. “It’s a beautiful story about selfless love. The witcher was smitten with the princess, but asked nothing from her, for he knew she had eyes for another…”

“So he rubbed one out thinking about her,” Geralt finished. “A romance for the ages.”

“You know how to ruin _everything_, Geralt,” Dandelion scoffed, affronted, but Geralt could still hear the laughter in his voice, as offended as he pretended to be. Turning to look at the ladies then, the bard grinned, pushing his chair from the table, before giving them a deferential nod, smoothing the front of his tunic in an impish bow. “If you ladies don’t mind,” he began, resting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “I’ll be stealing the witcher from you for a moment. I want to speak to him about… private matters, but I promise not to keep him away too long. I know he has a bad habit of disappearing if you lose sight of him for an instant!”

Pinching eagerly at Geralt’s sleeve, Dandelion tugged at the fabric, coaxing him out of his chair, before waving for the witcher to follow behind him as he made his way out of the breakfast-nook. Rounding the corner into the hall outside, Dandelion paused, leaning on his toes to ensure neither woman was listening in, before he finally turned back to Geralt again, his bright eyes shining with curiosity. “So when were you going to tell me?” he hissed, his boyish face splitting in a conspiratorial smile.

Geralt frowned at the question. “Tell you what?” he asked, trying to match the bard’s whispering tone. Whatever Dandelion wanted to talk about, it was clearly pressing to keep it hidden from the women, though Geralt could not figure out what he could be hinting at that they did not already know.

Dandelion scoffed, giving his chestnut hair a toss. “That Shani is having a baby, of course!” he said, his face bright with enthusiasm. “That’s exciting, Geralt! Don’t tell me you’re not thrilled for her. Do you know who the father is, or has she kept it under wraps?”

“Not a secret,” Geralt answered, shaking his head. “We know who the father is.”

“Well, don’t get cagey on me,” Dandelion baulked, propping his hands on his hips. “Out with it, Geralt! Tell me!”

“Me,” Geralt answered, looking up, bluntly. “Kid’s mine, Dandelion.”

Dandelion hesitated, his mouth opening to a bewildered gap, his coiffed brow sinking slowly lower as he puzzled over the answer. “…You?” he finally asked, sounding more lost than disbelieving. “But… Geralt, you’re—”

“A witcher,” Geralt answered. “I know.”

Dandelion raised his brows. “I was going to say _impotent_,” he offered. “But… same general principle.”

“Not the same at all,” Geralt returned, frowning.

“Right,” Dandelion said, pointing at Geralt in agreement. “You’re sterile, not incapable—up, but not out. There’s a joke to be made here about witchers and projectiles, but… I’ll save that for later material.” Geralt frowned at the comment, considering telling Dandelion that some other smartass had already beaten him to the punch, but he decided against it, not wanting his friend to think he had been spending time with other minstrels in his absence. “But enough of that,” Dandelion pressed, waving a hand to dismiss the topic. “You _must_ tell me all about how this happened, Geralt. How my best friend became the father of my dear friend’s baby.”

“Rather not,” Geralt answered, gruffly, twisting his mouth in a scowl. “Don’t want this ending up in your next song. Already in enough trouble as it is.”

“Oh, come _on_, Geralt,” Dandelion pleaded, clasping his hands, his voice keening upward in a way Geralt could never stand. The bard knew this, and he knew how to utilize it, and Geralt gritted his teeth, knowing he would undoubtedly fold before too long. “I came all the way out here to see you! You can’t truly deny me this _one_ small tale.” Having said this, he paused, before unclasping his hands and adding, “Perhaps a mug of vodka might help to loosen your tongue on the matter?”

At this, Geralt looked up, intrigued. “Two mugs,” he negotiated. “Might talk then.”

Dandelion sighed, crossing his brightly-coloured arms. “You witchers and your vodka,” he said. “_Fine._ Two mugs it is— but not a flagon more! There’s only so much a man can tell about getting a woman pregnant.”

“But I’m a witcher,” Geralt pointed out, smirking at the detail. “Supposed to be sterile. Isn’t that more interesting?”

Dandelion sucked in a sharp breath, holding it, puffing out his cheeks in an indignant pause. “Damn you, it is,” he finally said, letting it all out in an exasperated huff. “Will your picking of my pockets never cease?”

“Never,” Geralt answered, his grin widening.

Dandelion pursed his lips, still clearly in good spirits, before reaching out a hand to clap it against the witcher’s sturdy back. “Ladies!” he announced, moving back to the nook entryway, his cheerful voice making both women look up from their conversation. “Geralt and I are heading into town. I’m taking him out taverning. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, so don’t expect us back anytime soon.”

“Geralt really shouldn’t be drinking,” Shani pointed out, her brow furrowing faintly at the thought. “He just finished recovering from a long journey home, and—”

“Don’t worry, Shani,” Dandelion assured her, waving a playful hand. “He’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll look out for him. And besides, he says he’s not drinking that much tonight anyway.”

“I mean it, Dandelion,” Geralt reminded him, speaking in a low voice as the bard began to turn him towards the front door. “Just two drinks tonight. That’s all I want.”

“Yes, yes, Geralt,” Dandelion sighed, waving him off with a dismissive titter. “Just two drinks— or perhaps one more. I’ll keep a close eye on you, don’t you worry.” Geralt grunted at the reassurance, finding little in the bard’s tone to inspire confidence, but Dandelion only laughed, clapping him cheerfully on the back. “Loosen up, my friend!” he told the witcher, gripping his shoulder and giving it a heartening shake. “Don’t look so dour. You’re with your old friend Dandelion now! What could _possibly_ go wrong?”


	12. Geranium

Dandelion’s cheerful voice provided ample accompaniment for their ride into town, the plucking of his lute filling the dusky breeze as they took their time on the road to Beauclair. The evening air blew cool on their faces as they loped past fields of bright sunflowers, the farmers and knights-errant they passed on the road offering them a wide berth and a pleasant nod before heading again on their own way. Pegasus blustered as Dandelion shifted in his saddle, turning to look over at Geralt as he rode, his blue eyes bright as he held up his instrument, fingers splayed across the strings as he hummed a snippet of a newly-formed tune.

“Tell me how you like this one—” Dandelion said after a moment, causing Geralt to look up again, listening as the bard cleared his throat to sing. “_Red hair like the rowan, a bud on the vine—healed all but his heart, for he had none to heal; but years gave him sight, and they chanced reunite—and he found, suddenly, he had something to feel._”

Geralt frowned at the rhyme, reaching out to pat Roach’s neck as she blustered under him. “You think I had no heart?” he asked, a bit taken aback.

Dandelion shrugged, sliding the lute under his arm again, adjusting the strap so it rested snugly against his back. “She was seventeen, Geralt,” he answered, raising his brows. “You want me to say ‘he had no conscience, because he only thought with his dick’?”

Geralt shook his head quickly, looking down again. “No,” he said, shortly. “This way’s okay. Maybe take out the part about the red hair, though.”

“But that’s the best part!” Dandelion scoffed, holding out an exasperated hand. Pegasus snorted as his saddle shifted at the gesture, and Dandelion quickly straightened again, taking hold of his horse’s reigns. “That’s your problem, you know,” he added, turning to look over at Geralt again. “You don’t know good poetry when you hear it.”

“Not very good at reciting it either,” Geralt admitted, smirking. “‘Least, according to Yen.”

Dandelion hummed at the news, his mouth curling in an impish grin, before he reached up a hand to check the feathers in his cap. “Well, Yennefer is always right,” he returned. “Except when she’s not.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, gruffly. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

The ride into town felt shorter than usual, though Geralt knew their pace had been leisurely; in truth, it had taken much longer than normal for them to reach Beauclair, evidenced by the purplish hues of dusk setting over them as they pulled their horses to a stop outside the tavern. Dismounting from Roach, Geralt pulled her across to the tying-post, securing her reigns to the wooden bar, before looking up to observe the tavern as he waited for Dandelion to do the same with Pegasus. It was a lively establishment Dandelion had chosen, a bit crowded and upbeat for the witcher’s taste, but he knew he could not complain when he was being treated to the night on the bard’s good coin. He enjoyed spending time with Dandelion regardless, even if the minstrel was much more energetic and outgoing than he was, and if this was what made his friend’s night enjoyable, then he figured he could tough it out for one evening.

Roach’s blustering from behind him caused Geralt to turn quickly around again, watching as the mare bobbed her head in distress, but he clicked his tongue, patting her jaw to calm her, and she quickly settled down again, pressing her soft pink nose into his chest with a snort. “Good girl,” he told her, softly. “Won’t be long. Be back in a bit.”

“She seems more skittish than usual,” Dandelion observed, looping Pegasus’ reigns across the post beside her.

“Just tired, probably,” Geralt answered, petting Roach’s soft nose and frowning a bit at the thought. “Was with me riding up to Vizima and back. Probably still sore, even after a few days’ rest.”

“I heard,” Dandelion said, tightening Pegasus’ reigns to the post. “Shani said you nearly died getting home. Did you really miss your warm soft bed that much?”

“Bed? No,” Geralt answered, holding back a grin as he ran a hand down Roach’s neck again. “Yen’s soft breasts… missed those a lot more. Soft breasts, soft thighs, warm—”

“Okay, we get it,” Dandelion laughed, holding up his hands to stop him.

“Hands, Dandelion,” Geralt finished with a smirk. “Was gonna say hands. Don’t be gross.”

Dandelion laughed again, before turning to head towards the tavern, indicating with a jerk of his head for Geralt to follow behind, chattering merrily as he made his way for the door with the witcher nodding absentmindedly behind him. Geralt could only hear about half of what Dandelion was saying, finding himself too distracted by the faces in the tavern yard, searching each one with half-hearted interest, though he was unsure exactly what he was looking for. Perhaps there would be one that stuck out in some way, he thought; something that might justify his sense of paranoia and unease – but it seemed none of them were particularly interested in him or the bard, as he received nothing but a few strange looks in return for his trouble.

As he continued to follow Dandelion towards the bar, Geralt found himself stopped suddenly short, and he took a step back, blinking in surprise as he found something jutting out to block his path. It took him another moment to realize that the thing stopping his progress was a wooden bowl, held up by a dirty-faced beggar sitting at the foot of the tavern stairs. He had nearly collided with the man in his haste, having not even noticed him in his distraction, and he frowned as the beggar gave the bowl a hopeful shake, causing his spoon to rattle pleadingly around its empty crevices. “Spare a coin for a lost soul, sir?” the beggar implored, holding his bowl up towards the witcher again.

Geralt stared down into the empty bowl, wondering when the last time was that the man actually had soup to eat from it; he hated the thought of letting anyone go hungry, having known the feeling far too often during his own travels, and he reached into the pouch at his hip, taking out a few coins and dropping them into the bowl. “Yeah,” he said, offering the man a nod. “Here. Get something to eat. Something nice.”

“And a drink, too,” Dandelion added, reaching across Geralt to toss a few more coins in. “From me. A man’s supper isn’t complete without a nice drink.” Then, smiling agreeably up at Geralt again, he clapped his hand against the witcher’s back, before steering him past the beggar and up the stairs towards the tavern door.

The cacophony of the tavern hit them full force as they entered, and Geralt faltered at the rush of sensation, having nearly forgotten how noisy these places could be at full capacity. Dandelion did not even seem to notice the noise, only winding his way gleefully through the occupied tables, before finally finding an empty one and dropping down into one of the seats to claim it. Waving for Geralt to join him, he pointed eagerly to the seat across from him, before folding his hands on the tabletop as his friend settled in, looking around to check for every exit.

“Don’t look so jumpy,” Dandelion chuckled, causing Geralt to look up in surprise at the scolding. “There’s nothing for you to worry about here. I know these people. They love me here.”

“Thought you were banned from Beauclair,” Geralt observed, raising a curious brow. “Something about a rescinded death sentence. Sleeping around with another duchess.”

“Come on now, Geralt,” Dandelion scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “That’s old news. Anna Henrietta has long forgiven me. In fact, I might pay her a visit while I’m here – for old times’ sake.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, folding his arms on the table. “Thought you had a girlfriend. Priscilla.”

“Oh, I’m still with Priscilla,” Dandelion agreed, nodding so the feathers on his cap gave a spritely bounce. “We’re engaged, in fact. To be married, believe it or not. I couldn’t believe she asked me!”

“Congrats,” Geralt told him, grinning at the news. “Thought Priscilla was smarter than that. Guess I was wrong about her.”

Dandelion’s smile dropped a bit at the biting comment, and he blinked a few times, staring across at his friend. “You sure are grouchy when you’re sober,” he finally said, wagging a playful finger at the witcher. “Let’s get a few drinks in you, see if we can loosen you up. Then I want to hear all about you and Shani.”

“Two drinks, Dandelion,” Geralt reminded him, firmly. “Just got home a couple days ago. Barely had any time with Yen yet. Don’t want the first thing I do to be coming home sauced.” It was mostly the truth, after all, as he saw little reason to trouble Dandelion with his other concerns – the itching sensation that something was not quite right, and that letting his guard down just now could prove disastrous. He shrugged at the thought, offering a small, forced grin, trying to ignore the look of bitter disappointment on Dandelion’s face. “Another time,” he assured the bard. “Unless you plan on getting banned from Beauclair again.”

“I never _plan_ on getting banned from anywhere,” Dandelion answered, pressing a prideful hand to his cravat. “I’m simply too charming for some people to handle. It’s not _my_ fault they lack good taste.” Geralt snorted at the statement, before looking up again, watching as a young barmaid approached their table, causing Dandelion to instantly light up at the sight of her, beaming at her as he vied for her attention. “Two vodkas, please,” he told the young lady, holding up two fingers. “Actually— three, if you would. One for me, and two for the witcher.”

“I told you, Dandelion—” Geralt started to say, but Dandelion quickly raised a hand to stop him.

“_Please_, Geralt,” Dandelion pressed, sounding affronted that the witcher had tried to deny his hospitality. “I’m just trying to get the ball rolling. Relax some of that tension you’re obviously carrying.” Geralt frowned at the assurance, but settled back into his seat regardless, letting out a curt sigh as he watched the barmaid walk away with their order. Dandelion watched her leave as well, his gaze resting unsubtly on her retreating backside, before he turned his gaze to Geralt again, folding his hands on the table as he grinned across at his friend. “So,” he said, settling eagerly into his seat. “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? How did you and Shani meet up again, and what led to your _nuit de passion_? And remember—spare me no gory details. I want to hear the whole story.”

Geralt frowned at the regional dialect, wondering if two drinks would truly be enough for this conversation. “First, let me ask you something,” he began, taking a deep breath. “What do you know about… ghosts?”

* * *

“Smashed his brother’s head in with a candlestick,” Geralt said, picking up his beer to take another swig. “Drove it straight through the back of his throat. Severed his spine in one blow.”

“Jeez,” Dandelion breathed, his blue eyes wide, gripping his cravat in captivation. “So what happened next? Did he give you the deed to the house?”

Geralt shook his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “No deed,” he answered. “Only a little… house-shaped box.” He opened his hands to show the size, wavering a bit as he sat up in his seat; he could feel the room spinning, his cheeks flushing with heat, and he quickly settled down again, gripping his flagon to ground himself. “‘House’ contained their father’s will,” he explained, indicating towards Dandelion with the mug, before taking another drink, feeling the liquid growing low as he neared the bottom. “Bastard tried to cheat me. Wanted to give me just the box. Wasn’t what we agreed to, though. Tried to attack me, so I cut off his head. Left him to rot in the vault with his brother.”

“Should’ve known better than to try and cheat a witcher,” Dandelion answered, waving a hand to flag down the barmaid again. The young woman arrived quickly with another mug of beer, and Dandelion gladly took it from her, offering her a nod and a charming smile before turning to face Geralt again. Sliding the tankard across the table, he settled it just under the witcher’s nose, before giving him another cheeky grin and sitting back to enjoy more of his captivating story.

Geralt paused as he watched the exchange, glancing down at the newly-filled mug, before letting out a snort at the bard’s bold antics, looking across the table at Dandelion again. “You trying to get me drunk, Dandelion?” he teased, knowing well his friend never made any attempt to disguise that fact. He had used this ploy frequently during their years together, usually in his attempts to get Geralt to go along with one of his harebrained schemes, and though the witcher was generally reluctant to join in at first, he almost always ended up doing whatever was asked of him by the end. Of course, it was never actually the liquor which convinced him – more the satisfaction that came with helping his oldest and dearest friend – but he would never let on to Dandelion that he was so soft and easily persuaded, especially when the potential for free alcohol was involved.

“Yes, I am,” Dandelion answered, folding his hands on the table. “I had something I wanted to ask you, and I find you’re much more honest when you’re drunk.”

“More fun when I’m drunk, too,” Geralt returned, offering a lopsided smirk. “‘Least, that’s what they tell me. Never remember enough to know if they’re telling the truth.” Taking a drink from his newly-filled tankard, he sat back, feeling the familiar warmth spreading to his extremities, before looking up at Dandelion again, extending a hand in indication for him to speak. “Ask away,” he prompted, wondering for a moment if his speech was slurring as much as it sounded to him; Shani had warned him about drinking so soon after recovery, and he had taken her warning to heart, switching from vodka to beer earlier in the evening in an attempt to keep from losing his head. He had promptly lost track of the number of beers he had allowed Dandelion to buy him after that, of course, but he still felt he was well-equipped enough to answer whatever the bard asked of him.

Dandelion leaned in across the table, locking his blue eyes with Geralt’s golden ones. “Shani’s baby,” he said, making no effort at subtlety. “If you had your pick, would you want a boy, or a girl?”

Geralt faltered at the question, narrowing his eyes, looking past Dandelion towards the far wall of the tavern – it was an interesting question, though a far more difficult one to answer than he might have anticipated. Most people, himself included, would have expected him to leap blindly at the thought of having a son, and in all fairness, he knew the Geralt of twenty years ago would have accepted no other option. The Geralt of back then would have wanted a son to carry on his legacy as a witcher: fighting monsters, breaking curses, and eventually, working to bring back the former glory of Kaer Morhen. But that had been before he met Ciri; before the death of Vesemir and the subsequent fall of the Wolf School; before everything that had shaped him into the man he was now – and now, try as he might, he found he had no voice to answer.

Shaking his head, Geralt looked up at Dandelion again, drumming his fingers against his tankard in thought. “Dunno,” he finally answered. “Seems pointless to hope for something you can’t control. Long as it’s healthy, that’s all I care about.” Pausing then, he considered, before looking down pensively into his flagon again. “Yen thinks it’s gonna be a boy, though,” he added. “And Yen’s always right. So… I guess a boy. Might as well want what I’m gonna have. No problem with it being a boy.”

Dandelion sat back at the surprising answer, giving a soft, bewildered huff of a laugh. “Come now, Geralt!” he said, holding out a hand. “Isn’t having a boy a _good_ thing? A strapping lad who looks just like his father, and can follow in his footsteps as a witcher?”

Geralt shook his head again. “All that was lost a long time ago,” he said. “No way to make more witchers now. Even if we wanted to.”

“In the usual way, yes,” Dandelion agreed, folding his hands in front of him. “But what if he’s born with the mutations already? Couldn’t you just teach him the rest?”

Geralt’s brow furrowed at the question. “Wouldn’t want to,” he answered, solemnly. “Doesn’t matter what mutations he’s born with. Wouldn’t want that life for him. Want him to be able to choose his own path.”

Dandelion sighed, realizing he was getting nowhere, before finally extending his hands in surrender. “Alright,” he said, seeing he had plainly touched a nerve. “But he’s bound to ask questions, Geralt. Especially if he’s born with mutations. And you know as well as I do that he may very well be. He _is_ your son, after all.”

“Yeah,” Geralt answered, sighing as he looked down into his flagon again. “Worry about that, too. Wish there was some way to know, or… reverse them. Make sure they don’t develop.” Letting out a short grunt, he stared down into his mug, gritting his teeth as his mouth twisted into a frustrated line at the thought; it was getting easier to see where Moreau had been coming from, though he hated to compare himself to the man in any way. Even now, he could not help wondering if his own desire to take away his son’s mutations made him just as desperate and controlling as the doctor, though it took barely another moment for him to realize that the comparison held little weight. Moreau’s son had been a fully-fledged witcher, content in his fate and resentful of his father for trying to change it, while Geralt’s son was not even fully formed just yet, and he knew how easily the child could be hurt or killed if the wrong mutation tried to take hold before his little body could handle it.

Letting out another dark, unsettled grunt, Geralt took a long drink, wetting his lips. “No idea how I could even do that,” he admitted, looking up at Dandelion again. “Short of something drastic. Don’t think I’d go that far, though.”

“Drastic?” Dandelion asked, leaning forward a bit.

Geralt made a face, already regretting having brought it up. “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head again. “Either way, the less the kid turns out like me, the better. For everyone. Especially him and Shani. Wouldn’t want to put them through that.”

Dandelion frowned at the bleak observation. “Jeez,” he said, making a face at the news. “That seems a little harsh, don’t you think? Not exactly the sentiment I’d expect from a jubilant father-to-be.”

Geralt shrugged, swirling his drink in his mug. “How I feel,” he said. “You asked.”

“Still, it seems pretty dire,” Dandelion answered, tilting his feathered head. “Kinda sounds like you’d be happiest if the baby wasn’t born at all. If you really feel that way, maybe you should tell Shani. Have her open her clinic somewhere else, spare her the hurt.”

“That’s… not what I meant,” Geralt frowned, screwing up his face at the observation.

“So you _do_ want the baby, then?” Dandelion asked, folding his hands on the table again.

Geralt sighed at the prying questions, wishing he had never agreed to this outing – he always seemed to get into things much deeper than intended whenever he went taverning with Dandelion, and try as he might to keep his secrets intact, the bard always found ways of drawing his most intimate feelings out of him. “‘Course I do,” he answered, holding a frustrated hand out across the table. “Just… scared for the kid, that’s all. Worry how he’s gonna turn out, if he’s anything like me.” Picking up his beer again, he took a deep swig, before setting it down again, letting out a long, low sigh. “No precedent for something like this,” he said, shaking his head again with a frown. “Never been a witcher-blooded child before. Anything could happen to him because of me. Because of my fucked-up genes.”

“And you’re absolutely certain he’s yours?” Dandelion asked, his brows furrowing in a solemn expression.

Geralt nodded firmly. “Has to be,” he answered. “Shani said so. Know better than to question Shani.” Taking another swig of beer, he felt himself waver a bit in his seat, and he pressed his free hand to the table, offering a counterweight to keep himself balanced. Then, setting set the flagon down again, he shook his head to clear it, before taking in another deep breath, resting his elbow on the table and staring pensively into the depths of his stein. “She knows when she started seeing… signs, I guess,” he said, pushing a loose swath of hair from his face. “I’m the only one she was with in that time. Not the type to lie, Dandelion. Always been honest with me.”

“I believe you, no need to get defensive,” Dandelion returned, holding his hands up in apology. “I meant no harm, believe me. I’m just as baffled by this whole thing as anyone would be.” Laying his hands on the table again, he pursed his lips, considering Geralt for a moment, seeming to realize that his friend was having a bit more difficulty staying upright than before. “Now… Shani,” he continued after a moment, causing Geralt to look up again, wary of the topic. “I have to know, and I feel like now is the time to ask. How do you feel about her being the one to have your kid? What with your… _interesting_ history, there have to be at least a few feelings on the topic.”

Geralt frowned, narrowing his eyes at the question. “Why’re you always asking about Shani?” he insisted. “Years back, in Vizima, you tried to get me to talk about her, too. Don’t you have a fiancée to worry about?”

“I do have a fiancée,” Dandelion answered, seeming unconcerned at having his question turned against him. “This is just friendly curiosity. Nothing more. Shani was my friend before she was yours, remember.” He shrugged, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, seeming to be bursting at the seams to add more to his prying questions. “I’m just amazed you managed to find her again after all this time, that’s all,” he added, seeming unable to stop himself. “It _has_ been years, Geralt. The last time you saw Shani was… what, seven years ago? Eight? Ciri was just a girl.”

“So was Shani,” Geralt returned, bleakly, looking down into his half-empty flagon again. “But she’s a woman now – doctor, field medic, collegiate… you know how hard it is to get into Oxenfurt, Dandelion?”

“I do,” Dandelion answered, nodding proudly with a smile. “I studied there for four years, as you know.”

“Must’ve forgotten,” Geralt returned, taking another swig of beer. “Amnesia. Y’know. Still can’t place a few things.”

“Convenient,” Dandelion sniffed, unclear if he was truly offended or not. “Well in that case, yes. I studied at Oxenfurt. _Technically_ I’m still qualified to lecture there.”

“Professor Dandelion,” Geralt smirked, giving a gruff chuckle at the name. “Thankfully the girls there are too smart to fall for your tricks. They’re college-educated, you know.” Bringing his tankard to his lips again, he knocked back a few more hearty gulps, before setting the mug down in front of him again and wiping at his beard with his sleeve. Then, pausing a moment, he frowned, lost in thought, before looking up at Dandelion again, drumming his fingers against the curve of his mug as he considered what to say next. “Shani is so smart,” he commented after a while, seeming half-wistful, half oddly concerned as the observation left his lips. “But me… I was a pig back then. I took and took, and only thought about myself. I was… awful, Dandelion. Hurt good people. All because the only thing I could think about was… getting my dick wet one more time.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt,” Dandelion answered, his tone surprisingly soft in return. “You were different back then. We all were. That’s the point of life, to learn and grow.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, his expression twisting in a scowl. “I’m a hundred years old, Dandelion. Only so much learning and growing to do. Know what they say about… old dogs.”

“So you’re an old dog,” Dandelion returned, waving a dismissive hand at the thought. “So what? You had no perspective back then. All you’d ever known was survival. It took learning from the people who care about you to make you into the man you are today.” Pausing then, he tilted his head, considering Geralt for another moment. “And besides, you… didn’t have a beard back then,” he added, trying to lighten the mood. “You weren’t the same person at all without your beard. Even you can attest to that.”

Geralt grunted, nodding slowly, before reaching up a half-aware hand to run his fingers across his beard; he loved the sound it made, like kindling on a winter fire, a sound which usually meant Yennefer was running her fingers through it, or it was brushing up against the inside of her eager, wet thighs. “That’s true,” he said after a while, as if this argument made perfect sense. “Fucking_ ugly_ back then. Thankfully witchers age like fine wine.”

“Which explains why so many of you turn to vinegar after a while,” Dandelion answered, chuckling at his own joke. “But, back to my question – and don’t dodge it again! I want a real answer this time.”

Geralt sighed, before reaching for his beer again, wrapping his fingers around the edge of the flagon before responding. “Shani’s… a great friend,” he said after a moment, sounding only half-sure, even as the words left his lips. “She’s smart, funny… can’t imagine life without her. Would still want her around even if she wasn’t having my kid. Enough to get her pregnant again, if that was the only way to do it. Or… pregnant for the first time… again. Or… want to. Does that… make any sense?” He paused, his silver brow furrowing, a flicker of concern and confusion crossing his face as he tried to process what he had just said. “…Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “That’s… wrong. Not what I meant at all. Hold on.”

Letting out a long sigh, Geralt ran a hand back through his hair, before picking up his flagon and bringing it to his lips for another swig. Then, setting the empty tankard down, he looked up, sliding it across the table towards Dandelion. “Out,” he announced, pointing to the empty mug. “Buy me another so I can figure out what I’m trying to say.”

“Are you sure _more_ alcohol is the answer for that?” Dandelion asked, making a face as he accepted the mug. “You’re pretty incoherent as it is, Geralt. A few more drinks and I won’t be getting _any_ answers tonight.”

“Said you wanted honesty,” Geralt answered, stifling a soft hiccup. “Never known a drunken man to lie better than a sober one. Even a drunken witcher.”

“Fair enough,” Dandelion conceded, picking up the empty flagon and holding it in the air, giving it a wave as he waited for the barmaid to come over and attend to them again. His countenance quickly lifted as he spotted the young lady coming over to their table this time; she was a curvy lass, with round apple cheeks and an hourglass figure, her ample bosom bubbling over the lip of her dress like froth on a heady beer. The bard smiled charmingly at the young barmaid, his gaze moving to subtly glance down the gape of her cleavage as she set down their fresh mug, and Geralt arched a brow at the bard’s shamelessness, before nodding politely to the woman, picking up his drink and taking a swig as she sashayed away, feeling he had all but earned it.

Dandelion faltered as the barmaid walked away, seeming to have only now noticed the refill she brought over, before he pointed a reproachful finger across the table at Geralt, giving it a playful shake. “After this one you’re buying your own refills,” he told him, trying to keep a bewildered smirk from his face. “I’ve never known a man who could put back so many drinks and still come out standing. You witchers are something else.”

“It’s the training,” Geralt answered, simply, swirling his drink in his mug. “Witcher potions… full of toxins. Wouldn’t be much of a witcher if I died from alcohol poisoning after that.” Taking another draught then, he let out a long breath, before setting his flagon on the table again, furrowing his brow as he tried to finally put what he felt into words. “Shani is… wonderful,” he said after a moment, sounding much more confident in the statement as he spoke this time. “If I’d known she was pregnant before proposing to Yen… might’ve tried to do the right thing by her. Dunno. Would’ve depended on her, how she felt about it. Said herself we’re better as friends, so… probably would’ve said no anyway.” He frowned at the thought, his gaze lowering slowly after a moment to stare down at the table instead.

“Just… wish I could’ve known before I proposed to Yen,” he said, his voice softer this time, regretful. “Before asking her to leave everything behind. Move out here with me. Not fair to ask her to abandon everything, then… drop this on her like this. If she left me because of it… wouldn’t blame her. Put this on myself entirely. But…” He paused, taking in another breath, before turning his eyes to Dandelion again, his expression growing weary and sombre as the weight of his circumstances began to settle on him at last. “Don’t think I could make it if she left me,” he admitted, shaking his head slowly at the thought. “Feel like… my whole life’s been leading up to this. Me and Yen, settled down, enjoying our life together. If she left me…”

Geralt trailed off again, his golden eyes straying, before he let out a sharp huff, his lips pursing in a discouraged frown. “Says she’s worried we have nothing in common anymore,” he said, his voice almost too low for Dandelion to hear. “Said that before she left last time, too. Said the only thing we had then was Ciri. Don’t think that’s true, but… dunno how to tell her otherwise. Dunno…” He faltered again, his expression twisting, his frown deepening at his lack of solutions. “Said… she was worried it’d happen again,” he added. “That… once Shani left, we’d fall apart again. Don’t want that for us, Dandelion. Don’t think I could take it. Just… wish I could prove to Yen I care about her.”

Dandelion hummed, his brow furrowing in thought, causing Geralt to look up at him again, unsure what to expect. “Well, that’s a start,” Dandelion offered, leaning his elbows on the table. “What have you tried so far to prove to Yennefer you care about her?”

Geralt faltered, seeming surprised by the question. “Sex,” he answered after a moment. “Lots… of sex.”

Dandelion smiled, straining through an expression that looked as if he had been made to eat glass. “Sex is… good,” he said after a moment, speaking slowly. “But what have you tried to be _romantic_ for her?”

Geralt frowned, seeming confused. “Thought sex was romantic,” he admitted, honestly.

Dandelion sighed, pinching his weary forehead. “When you proposed to her, what did you do then?” he asked, trying hard not to sound as frustrated as he felt. “What grand gesture did you do then that made her say yes?” He looked up again, expectantly, only to quickly hold up a hand again as he saw the look on Geralt’s face. “Nevermind,” he countered, shaking his head before the witcher could answer. “Listen, Geralt. You have to do something _romantic_ for her from time to time. She’s your wife, for Melitele’s sake. Don’t you know what makes her happy?”

“Thought I did,” Geralt answered, picking up his flagon again with a frown. “Thought having a baby around to get ready for would do it. But… think it just made her more upset.”

“You thought having a woman you impregnated around your infertile wife would make her happy?” Dandelion asked, incredulous.

Geralt faltered, before taking another drink to fill the uncomfortable pause. “Don’t have to say it like that,” he argued after a moment, setting his mug back down again.

“How else am I supposed to say it?” Dandelion returned, folding his hands in front of him again. “Please, enlighten me.”

“Don’t have to say it at all,” Geralt answered, annoyed. “Know I fucked up. Don’t have to rub it in.” Letting out a long sigh, he rested his arm on the table, shaking his head as he ran his thumb along the side of his flagon. “Don’t want her to leave me,” he said after a moment. “Don’t think I could take it if she did. Just wish I knew how to tell her that. Wish…” He paused, his lips thinning in thought, his free hand curling pensively against the tabletop; speech had never been his strongest suit, but now that he was drunk enough to try, the words refused to come.

“Spent so many years without her,” Geralt finally said, his voice growing quieter as he continued. “After I lost my memory. Spent so long… looking for something. Thought… maybe I could fool myself, if I slept with enough other women. Maybe make myself stop missing whatever… piece, my heart kept looking for.” He stopped again, his frown deepening at the thought, unsure if his rambling was making any sense, but Dandelion seemed to be paying attention to him, so he figured at least something in what he was saying was worth listening to. “Even when I couldn’t remember her face, or her name, there was this… emptiness,” he continued after a moment. “Then she came back, and suddenly… my heart was full again. Yen’s my everything, and… I’ve been treating her so badly.”

He paused again, letting out another breath, before his second hand moved to join the first around his flagon. “If she left me now… wouldn’t blame her,” he admitted. “Wouldn’t want her to, but… wouldn’t fault her for it. Go after her, of course, at first… see if I could win her back again. If not… probably just give up on marriage. Throw myself into my work. Anything to distract myself. Maybe become a town drunk. Already own a vineyard, wouldn’t be too hard from there.” Letting himself lapse once more into silence, he lowered his gaze, feeling his heart ache at the thought of a life without Yennefer, before he lay his left hand out on the table in front of him, staring down at the wedding-band glinting around his finger.

“She’s my other half, Dandelion,” he said, his voice soft but sure. “My better half. Meant to be together, even before the wish. After we broke the spell… nothing changed. Was never what was keeping us together.” Lifting his hand then, he twisted the band around on his finger, waiting until the symbol of the broken cross faced upward before letting out another soft sigh. The design of his and Yennefer’s bands had been her idea, a reference meant only for the two of them: matching bands, emblazoned with a broken cross and pattern of nine stars, the symbol the mage Geoffrey Monck had once used to seal away powerful djinns. It had been the symbol on the seal that had held the djinn that led to his and Yennefer’s first meeting, and the symbol on the seal that had conjured the djinn on Skellige that had ultimately broken the first’s years-long spell.

“Don’t believe in fate, or destiny,” Geralt continued after a pause, letting his hand finally fall back to his flagon again. “But… know I love Yen. Do believe that. Always have. Always will.”

For a long time, Dandelion said nothing, only staring at his friend across the table. Then, “Can I tell you something?” he asked, breaking the silence. “No offense, Geralt, but… _why don’t you just tell her all that_?”

Geralt scoffed at the suggestion, shaking his head. “Can’t tell her that,” he answered. “She’d think I’d gone crazy. Not exactly the emotional type, Dandelion.”

“Whether you’re the ‘emotional type’ or not makes no difference,” Dandelion returned, exasperated. “You’re saying your wife is unhappy, yet you won’t even let yourself be vulnerable to make her stay. That sounds crazier to me than letting Yen see you have a heart, gods forbid.” Letting out a futile sigh then, he held up his hands again, frustrated, before letting them fall back to the table again, realizing it was not worth arguing about. “I gave you my advice,” he told the witcher. “That’s all I can do. Now I want to ask something else, because I’m curious. If you could have kids with Yen, would you want that?”

“Of course,” Geralt answered, sitting up straighter, not giving the question a moment’s thought. “Do anything to have kids with Yen. If I could give her kids, we’d be fucking day and night until it happened.” He paused, considering, before a wry grin began to slither across his face at the thought. “Well,” he added, giving a gruff laugh. “More than we already do, at least. Which is definitely more than most. No kids still, but… not for lack of trying.”

Dandelion snorted, pulling his own drink in and taking a swig before commenting. “A man bragging about having sex with his wife?” he asked. “That’s not one you hear every day.”

“Most men’s wives aren’t Yen,” Geralt answered, bringing his flagon to his lips for another drink. He could feel his chest filling with warmth as he spoke, though whether it was from the conversation or the alcohol was growing increasingly harder to tell, and he allowed a moment for his draught to settle before he set his mug down again, ready to go on. “I’d want two,” he announced, his usually colourless face lighting up as he continued. “Twins. Boy and a girl. One for me, and one for her.” Picking up his flagon again, he hesitated, his brow furrowing for a moment in thought, his drink hovering just below his lips, as if unsure whether he wanted to say something or take another drink first. “Two for her, probably,” he decided after a moment, before allowing himself to take another hearty swig.

He drank deeply from the flagon this time, not bothering to notice as a bit of beer escaped its depths, skating down his beard and into the open collar of his shirt to collect on the chain of his medallion. Then, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he stifled an unexpected burp, before letting out a hefty, satisfied sigh and staring down into his mug again, still caught up in the conversation about Yennefer and their twins. “Everyone likes her better,” he admitted after a moment, seeming far more amused than annoyed or jealous. “Can’t blame them. Kids, dogs… cats. Ever _see_ a cat when a witcher come around?” Letting out a raspy chuckle at the thought, he peered into his flagon again, tilting it on its edge, watching as the last lees of beer trickled sadly across the bottom of the mug.

“Sure our kids would adore her and tolerate me,” Geralt added, his voice growing softer as he continued, more wistful. “With my luck, we’d have two black-haired terrors who clung to their mother’s side like ducklings. That’d be…” He stopped, trailing off, his last thoughts fading out as he stared into his stein, the lines of his smile starting to slowly disappear as the weight of his reality began to sink in. “…Wonderful,” he finished at last, quietly. “But… shouldn’t waste time thinking about it. Know it’ll never happen. Yen can’t have kids. I… we both… know that.”

Dandelion frowned at the soft tone, his lips pursing faintly in thought. “You’ve thought about this a lot,” he said after a moment, sounding almost sad at the observation.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, pushing his hair from his face again, seeming unsure what to do with his restless energy. “Love Yen. Want her to be happy. Never really liked kids before Ciri, but…” He stopped, taking in another deep breath, before his brow furrowed over his golden eyes, and he stared at a spot on the table, as if trying to read something beyond the polished wood. “That sense of… pride,” he said after a moment, looking up at Dandelion again, as if hoping he could relate. “Of… joy, seeing that little face beaming up at you. Nothing like it, Dandelion. And I guess, seeing how happy Ciri made Yen, I just…” He faltered, going quiet again, before folding his hands around his flagon as he dropped his gaze to the table once more.

“That changed something, too,” he admitted, his voice almost a quiet sigh. “Want her to be happy like that again. Wish… I knew how to make it happen for her.” He paused at the thought, pondering it for a moment, before his hands clenched tighter around his flagon as he prepared to go on. “Which… I guess makes no sense,” he added, tilting his head at the thought. “Because… if Yen and I had kids, they’d run the same risk. Magic and witcher blood… sure to turn out bad. But that never crosses my mind when I think about them. Only ever good things.” His face twisted at the reality, seeming almost pained to consider it, as if confronting the truth about his daydreams made him physically uncomfortable.

“All I can think about with Shani’s kid,” he admitted after another moment, shaking his head again with a huff. “Love her kid. Excited for it to come. Just… dunno why the thought of it always fills me with such… dread.”

“Because it’s real,” Dandelion suggested, making Geralt look up again quickly at the answer. “Yennefer’s children are hypothetical. There’s a big difference between imagining kids and actually having to care for one.”

Geralt grunted, still unsure, before dropping his head into his hand, letting out another weary breath. “Didn’t mean to drag Shani into all this,” he mumbled, shaking his head at the thought. “Just a moment of weakness. Nostalgia, for both of us. Comfort, for comfort’s sake.” He huffed again, letting his hand fall back to the table, staring down at his flagon again as he thinned his lips. “Both of us missing something we couldn’t have,” he added. “Had no idea I’d get her pregnant. How could I? And even if I’d known…” He stopped, his expression solemn, his gaze distant as he stared down at his flagon. “…Would’ve wanted it,” he admitted after a moment, quieter this time. “Would’ve wanted a kid with her. Even if she wouldn’t let me help raise it. Up to her, of course. Hope I can, but if not…”

He paused again, falling silent once more, staring at his flagon, as if hoping to find the answers written there. Then, setting his hand over the mouth of the mug, he tilted it thoughtfully onto its edge, feeling the weight of the liquid pooling pensively against the side. Life was so unpredictable, he thought, yet one truth always seemed to hold: every action had a consequence, and nothing in life could be counted on to turn out the way he hoped. “Shani… deserves better than me,” he admitted after a moment. “So does her kid. But… I love them, Dandelion. Wanna be part of her child’s life. Hope she says yes, but if not…” He faltered again, thinking it over, his gaze growing solemn as he stared at the flagon, seeming to be seeing something beyond it as he took another deep breath, preparing to go on.

“…Be willing to let them both go,” he decided, quietly. “‘Cause… that’s what they deserve. The life Shani chooses, for her and our kid. And even if she does leave, ‘least I’d know… somewhere out there, my kid is loved. That’s all I really want for him, whether it includes me or not.”

Dandelion listened as Geralt finished, his expression soft as he watched his friend speak. “Wow,” he finally said after a moment, causing the witcher to look up again, unsure what to expect. “Did you hear yourself just then, Geralt? Everything you said, about Shani and the baby?”

“Yeah,” Geralt answered, moving his hand from his flagon again. “I’m selfish, Dandelion. Always been selfish.”

“No,” Dandelion countered, holding up his hands and shaking his head. “You’re not. You’ve really grown. The Geralt I knew ten years ago? He would _never_ have said any of the things you just did. He would’ve been completely lost in a situation like this. You know that as well as I do.” Geralt paused at the thought, his gaze straying again, his expression growing pensive as he considered if Dandelion might be right. “That Geralt would probably have tried to run as far away as possible from something like this,” Dandelion continued, drawing Geralt’s attention back again. “Used his work as an excuse, then disappeared completely from the life of a woman he accidentally impregnated during a one-night-stand.”

“You mean like you?” Geralt asked, a knowing smirk curling the corners of his lips.

Dandelion paused, before giving a short, uncomfortable laugh, dropping his cheek sheepishly into his hand at the reminder. “Ah,” he said. “Well, I was young then, you know. And if it hadn’t been for you, that woman’s brothers would have skinned me alive. But! I’ve seen the errors of my ways the last few years, and I’ve made up for all of that now, to… some extent.” Sitting up in his chair again, he puffed out his chest, pleased with his personal growth. “I’ve reached a different point in my life, Geralt,” he informed the witcher, proudly. “I’m not the same man I was when we first met. Took me a bit of time to man up, of course, but… I’m actively working to fix things going forward. I _am_ almost forty, after all, and—”

“Almost?” Geralt asked, his incredulous smirk widening.

Dandelion huffed, leaning in across the table. “Alright, I _am_ forty,” he hissed. “Keep your voice down, would you? I have a reputation to uphold.”

Geralt grinned wider, before finishing his drink, sliding his empty mug across the table to the bard again. “Buy me another and I’ll take it to my grave,” he said.

Dandelion scoffed, but picked up the flagon regardless, holding it in the air for the barmaid to refill. “You’re a terrible friend,” he informed the witcher. “But! Either way, I realized it was time for me to grow up. I send the child’s mother money every month now to help pay his expenses. He’s turning into quite the little musician himself, from what I’ve read in her letters.”

“And how is Priscilla taking the news?” Geralt asked, watching as the barmaid approached again, taking the empty mug from the bard and replacing it with a new, fresh flagon of beer.

“Surprisingly well, actually,” Dandelion answered, pausing momentarily to admire the barmaid’s retreating backside. “Except, it’s not that surprising at all. Priscilla is wonderful, Geralt. When she found out I had a son, she had me invite him and his mother to spend a few nights at our place.” Turning to face the witcher again, he slid the new drink across to him, before folding his hands and taking a deep breath, his smile softening at the thought of Priscilla. “She’s so supportive,” he added, lifting his head contentedly at the thought. “She really wants me to get to know the boy. Says bonding with him will be good practice for when we start to have children of our own.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, taking a sip of beer. “Never took you for the accountable type, Dandelion. Like this new, responsible side of you. Guess Priscilla was right about you after all.”

Dandelion laughed at the compliment, a faint blush tinting his boyish cheeks. “Yes, well,” he said. “We can all change, after all. Even you, Geralt. Ciri really changed you. You’re different now, but in a good way.”

Geralt grunted at the vote of confidence. “Dunno how much I believe that,” he answered, picking up his flagon for another swig. “Kinda feels like—” But before he could finish, he felt his medallion give a sharp tremor against his chest, and he sat up straight, setting down his tankard and looking around the tavern, on high alert. He swore at himself for letting his guard down, for allowing himself to get comfortable – comfort was not meant for witchers, he knew, and especially not for him, and he shook his head, trying his hardest to clear it, before a sudden flash of emerald green caught his eye. It lingered for a moment in his line of sight, just long enough for him to know he had not imagined it, before it disappeared again into the tavern crowd, vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared.

Geralt felt his heart race as he looked around the bar, trying in vain to find some other trace of the familiar coat – until he suddenly saw the tavern door swing partially open, letting out something too small to be a regular patron before closing again, just as quickly. “Fuck,” he hissed, feeling his blood run cold at the thought that he had allowed himself to lose focus. Then, reaching across the table to Dandelion, he grabbed his arm, causing the bard to look up in surprise. “Have to go,” he announced, all but hissing the command. “Something’s not right. Have to get out of here, _now_.”

“But—Geralt,” Dandelion answered, seeming a bit frightened by the change of tone. “What’s going on? You have to tell me. I don’t like it when you do this, you scare the life out of me.”

“Can’t talk here,” Geralt insisted, glancing again towards the tavern door. “Just trust me. Think I know what’s going on, but need to see something first.” Letting go of Dandelion then, he pushed himself up from his chair, only to stumble as his legs buckled uselessly beneath him, unable to support him as he tried to get to his feet. He swore at the setback, managing to catch himself on the edge of the table before he fell, and he heaved himself tremulously upward again, gripping the back of the chair this time to hold himself steady. “Fuck,” he breathed, reaching out a hand for the bard again. “Help—help me up, Dandelion. We have to go.”

“You know, you could just say you don’t enjoy my company,” Dandelion teased, trying his hardest to make light of what was quickly becoming a nervewracking situation. Pulling a handful of gold from his pocket, he tossed it onto the table, before getting to his feet and making his way around to Geralt, grabbing the witcher’s arm and sliding it across the back of his neck. “You know,” he puffed, heaving his friend’s weight onto his shoulders. “It never occurred to me how _heavy_ you are. Guess you’re eating well up there at Corvo Bianco after all, huh?”

“Don’t you call me fat, too,” Geralt grunted, leaning heavily on the bard. “Get enough of that from everyone else.”

Dandelion said nothing, only hoisting Geralt to his feet again, before starting to head with him for the door of the bar, doing his best to avoid bumping into other patrons along the way. As soon as they reached the door, Geralt pulled his arm away from Dandelion’s shoulders, before stumbling forward and pushing it open, allowing himself out into the cool night air. The road and stars swam together as a single darkened blur as Geralt staggered his way across the tavern courtyard, finally catching his balance on a nearby fence as he looked up and down the street, trying to decide which way the girl had gone.

There was no one around at this time of night except the beggar still sitting by the tavern entrance, Geralt realized, and he gritted his teeth, cursing himself for being too slow to catch the girl on her way out the door. “Hey!” he barked, turning back to the beggar, causing the man to look up in surprise at being addressed. Dandelion, too, had by now made his way out to the street, and he also looked up, seeming a bit mortified by his friend’s loud, slurring tone. “Did you see a little girl go by here?” Geralt insisted, pointing first to the tavern door, and then to the road leading into town. “Would’ve been about—six years old. Came out of the tavern, would’ve run right past here.”

“Not unless you mean the one in the little green hood, sir,” the beggar answered, seeming eager to help. “Quick little thing, she was. Didn’t even have time to stop and talk.”

“That’s her,” Geralt confirmed, nodding over to Dandelion, before waving a hand, indicating for him to follow. “Come on, Dandelion! We gotta go after her!”

“Geralt, stop!” Dandelion insisted, reaching out to grab the witcher’s arm, and Geralt staggered as he was pulled back again, reaching once more for the fence to steady his feet. “You’re running after a _little girl_? Do you know how insane you sound?”

“She knows something, Dandelion!” Geralt pressed, pointing after the girl and swaying. “I know she does! Always comes around right before something bad happens— _every time!_”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Dandelion hissed, his voice pitching up in disbelief. “She’s probably just somebody’s messenger! You already scared her off, just leave her alone!”

“No,” Geralt insisted, shaking his head. “Not just a messenger. Too much c—coincidence. Brought me all those weird contracts that led back to the Man of Glass—”

“The who?” Dandelion asked, making a face.

“Man of Glass,” Geralt repeated, lowering his voice to a grim slur. “Gaunter O’Dimm. Found him again. Or— he found me. He found me, Dandelion. Ciri got a tip, led me straight to him. But… he _wanted_ me to find him. Set me up so I couldn’t say no, to… to finding him.” Dandelion frowned, looking the world like he was trying to understand, and Geralt shook his head again, squeezing his eyes shut, huffing a breath as he tried to clear his mind enough to elaborate. “He—makes… deals,” he tried again. “Like… a demon. Makes things happen. Tried to make a deal with me, but I turned him down. So he put a curse on me and Shani. Told me he’d use his powers, to…” He stopped again, letting out a heavy sigh, pressing the heel of his palm into his temple as he stumbled over the words to explain.

“Used his powers to… grant magic-users the ability to have children,” he said, picking his words carefully. “But only if someone killed Shani’s baby first. Before it’s born. While it’s still inside her.”

“Good gods, Geralt,” Dandelion swore, sucking in a startled breath and checking over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening in on their conversation. “Why didn’t you mention this before? It seems like an important detail to leave out, don’t you think? Hey, Dandelion, thanks for coming to visit – some demon is trying to kill our pregnant friend!” He huffed, exasperated, tucking his arms against his chest as he tried in vain to think of what to do. “It sure didn’t seem like Yennefer and Shani had any idea about it either,” he added.

“They don’t,” Geralt answered, letting his hand fall back to his side again. “Tried to tell them, but… didn’t wanna listen. Felt like I was going crazy, might’ve dreamed the whole thing up. But if the girl is real…”

“Well, I don’t know anything about this _girl_,” Dandelion said, his frown deepening at the situation. “But if this… eugh, _demon_, is real, are you sure you understood him correctly? Are you certain he wasn’t just bluffing, trying to put you off your guard?”

“O’Dimm doesn’t bluff,” Geralt insisted, opening his eyes again, his expression deathly solemn. “Haven’t seen any mages around Corvo Bianco yet, but that doesn’t mean they don’t already know. Shani’s in danger. All because I refused to make a deal with the devil.”

Dandelion paused, his brow furrowing in thought. “Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “You refused? How can he do anything if you refused?”

Geralt blinked, taken aback by the question, having not considered it before. “…Dunno,” he answered after a moment, shaking his head at the thought. “Didn’t think about it, but… you’re right, Dandelion. Shouldn’t’ve been able to. Shouldn’t have any power unless I agreed to it.”

“And did you agree to it?” Dandelion asked.

Geralt shook his head again. “‘Course not,” he spat. “Wouldn’t make a deal with him. Not after what I’ve seen him do. Said I wouldn’t walk away in exchange for a reward, so instead he cast this curse, and…” He stopped, trailing off, and Dandelion leaned in closer, waiting anxiously for him to continue. “…Agreed to his terms to prevent it,” Geralt said, his brow furrowing deeper as he remembered. “But that… can’t be right. Knew I wouldn’t let him put Shani in danger. Agreed to do three tasks to undo his curse, but…”

“So you did agree to _something_,” Dandelion pointed out, raising a finger. “Is it possible you unknowingly agreed to his curse by agreeing to take steps to undo it?”

“I…” Geralt faltered again, his mouth twisting into a troubled frown. “Don’t… know. Drew up a contract, but he didn’t…” He fell silent, struggling to think, staring intently at the cobbled path as he gripped the cool wood of the fence against his calloused palms. “Didn’t mark me,” he said after a moment, still seeming to have trouble justifying his memory. “Didn’t… break the spoon. Used my blood to sign something, but… that can’t be right. Can’t be two ways to do it. …Can there?”

Dandelion shrugged, propping his hands on his hips. “I don’t know about _right_,” he answered, thoughtfully. “But it’s not _fair _contract etiquette, definitely. He can’t expect you to follow rules of contract he doesn’t adhere to, himself.” Pursing his lips then, he lifted a hand, shaking a ringed finger at the witcher. “You should bring it up to him next time,” he told him. “Challenge him on it. See if he can defend himself!”

Geralt scoffed at the suggestion. “He doesn’t care about _contract etiquette_,” he spat. “Besides, wouldn’t know where to find him. Always found me, last time I dealt with him.”

“Well, where can you look, then?” Dandelion contended, folding his arms at the question. “Think back, Geralt. There has to be _some_ clue as to where he’d turn up.”

Geralt paused at the thought, considering, before looking up quickly, as if expecting to see the demon standing in front of him. “…He’s here,” he answered, feeling his stomach clench at the realization.

“What?” Dandelion insisted. “Here? Now? How do you know?”

“Just know,” Geralt answered, shortly. “Told me, Dandelion. Said he can make himself unrecognizable. Last time, he was always there, wherever I was, blending into the crowd somehow.” He lifted his head at the thought, feeling his heart start to beat faster at the idea of O’Dimm watching them. “Gotta be here now,” he insisted, clenching his teeth at the feeling of sinister eyes in the dark. “Can _feel_ him, Dandelion. He’s here, somewhere. Just… don’t know where.”

“Geralt,” Dandelion sighed, pressing a weary hand to his hat. “You’ve had quite a lot to drink tonight. Which is partly my fault, I admit, but—”

“_He’s here_,” Geralt insisted, turning his golden eyes sternly to the bard. “And now he knows I told you about the curse on Shani.”

Dandelion frowned, making a face at the news. “And?” he asked. “What difference does that make? You tell me everything. Or at least, you used to.”

“Means now you know,” Geralt answered, curtly. “So I’ve put you in danger, too. If he thinks you’ll try to get in the way of things…” He stopped, staring intently at the ground, before finally pushing himself away from the fence, wavering a moment as he tried to catch his balance, before starting to head towards the horses still tied outside the tavern. “We gotta go,” he insisted, stumbling over his boots once before quickly righting himself again. “Gotta get home. Make sure Shani and Yen are okay. Should never have left them—they have no idea what’s coming.”

“Geralt wait!” Dandelion called, nearly tripping over himself as he followed anxiously behind the witcher. “Are you sure you’re okay to ride? Roach is a smart horse, but there’s only so much she can control.” He frowned as he tugged on Pegasus’ reigns, fumbling as he started trying to untie him from the post. “She can’t keep her rider steady all by herself,” he added, worriedly. “If you fall off, you could hurt yourself, or both of you. I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

Geralt huffed at the bard’s concern, gripping Roach’s saddle and squinting as he tried to get her stirrup into focus. “Act like I’ve never ridden drunk before,” he slurred, holding the saddle as he gave another waver on his feet. Roach blustered as she felt her saddle tug, tossing her mane and glancing back towards her rider, but Geralt only petted a heavy hand across her neck, causing her to lay her ears flat, well-trained but annoyed.

“Have you?” Dandelion challenged, looking between the horse and her sloppy rider. “_This_ drunk? Geralt, you can barely stand. You’ll be lucky if you don’t pitch off the minute Roach starts moving.” Letting out another worried huff, he turned back to Pegasus again, tightening the horse’s saddle to prepare for the harrowing ride back to Corvo Bianco. “I don’t know everything you’ve done, of course,” he added, more to himself than the witcher, trying to use the sound of his own voice to soothe his frazzled nerves. “For all I know, this could be normal for you. I try to keep apprised, but you keep doing new things. Even in retirement! All I know is, I once knew a man who tried to ride after a long night’s bender, and he went over like a sack of potatoes, horse and all, down the side of a c—”

He stopped, his story halfway finished, and Geralt quickly looked up, wondering where the rest had gone. “Down the side of what?” he asked, peering over Roach’s saddle towards the bard. Dandelion said nothing, only standing with his back to the witcher, and it took Geralt a moment to realize he was not being ignored – in fact, it seemed as if Dandelion had become magically frozen in time somehow, his eyes fixed open, floral tunic stiff with a total absence of breath. Looking up at Pegasus, Geralt realized that he, too had become completely stationary, his sleepy eyes half-lidded, mane and tail still in the pull of the nighttime breeze. “…Shit,” Geralt breathed, staggering back a few steps, holding out a hand to steady himself against Roach’s shoulder – only to realize that Roach did not move as he touched her either, her ears frozen flat to her mane, eyes unblinking, staring straight ahead.

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he stumbled back again, looking desperately around for any other sign of life, before he found his gaze drawn to the beggar sitting outside the bar, and he frowned, realizing there was something very off about the man. Unlike Dandelion and the horses, the beggar seemed to have no trouble moving just now, and Geralt watched as the man stood from his seat, before starting to approach across the silent courtyard. The beggar’s hood was drawn as he walked, still holding his bowl imploringly out in front of him, and Geralt frowned as he glanced down into the bowl again, only to feel his heart plummet at what he saw.

How he had managed to miss the wooden spoon the first time was beyond him to guess, but now he could see it plain as day, sitting alongside the coins he and Dandelion had thrown in earlier that night. Realizing he had been figured out, the beggar pushed his hood back, before offering Geralt the most sinister grin he had ever seen in his life – and as soon as he did, Geralt immediately recognized him, the countenance grinning out at him coming quickly into focus, and he felt his stomach turn, knowing he could never be drunk enough not to recognize that smile.

“Greetings, Geralt,” O’Dimm chuckled, darkly. “Leaving so soon? The night’s still yet so young.”

The sound of the sickeningly familiar voice sent a spike of ice through Geralt’s veins, and he froze, recoiling, closing his eyes, as if hoping he could shut the sound out somehow. The fact that he had not managed to recognize the voice when the beggar had spoken the first time was a mystery, but he figured he had subconsciously blocked it out, not wanting to acknowledge the awful truth. He knew, realistically, that trying to ignore O’Dimm only ever made things worse – but this was not a conscious reaction; this was instinctive, visceral, childish in a way, an irrational hope that the demon might simply lose interest and go away if he refused to look at him. It was foolish, of course, and a terrible weakness to display, but whatever clear thinking Geralt might have once had had long been left behind at the tavern door.

Clinging to the nearest street-sign, Geralt dug his fingers into the wood, counting his breaths as he tried to salvage what semblance of composure he could manage. O’Dimm chuckled coldly at the sorry sight, amused by his plaything’s pain, the sound thin, serpent-like, slithering like poison through the witcher’s blunted senses. “Have to get back to the wife, is that it?” O’Dimm pressed, now seeming more eager than ever to torment his foe. “The old ball and chain? Or were you merely trying to leave quickly so you wouldn’t have to say goodbye to an old friend?”

“We are not friends,” Geralt growled, glaring up at the demon with bloodshot eyes.

O’Dimm hummed, clicking his tongue, giving a faint, mocking shake of his head as he took another few steps closer. “Pity,” he cooed, venom dripping from the word. “Words do hurt, you know.”

“So do swords,” Geralt shot back, snarling. Gripping the sign harder, he drew himself upright, digging his fingers in as he tried to keep from wavering. “You tricked me, O’Dimm,” he hissed, doing his best to keep his unsteady legs beneath him. “Deceived me into agreeing to something I’d already turned down. You broke—” A sharp hiccup cut his argument short, the sound causing O’Dimm’s brows to shoot up in surprise, his already repulsively smug Cheshire cat grin stretching wider at the show of insobriety from the witcher. Geralt faltered at the interruption, blinking a few times as he tried to regain his composure, before he gave his head a sharp shake, returning to the last place he remembered. “Broke the rules,” he repeated, starting over again. “So the pact is void. Curse on Shani’s life is f… forfeit.”

O’Dimm chuckled at the valiant effort, amused by Geralt’s drunken attempts to undermine his contract. “I did no such thing,” he returned, matter-of-factly, opening his palms in a gesture of innocence. “I merely proposed an alternative arrangement, to which you readily agreed. Whether you fully considered the consequences of that arrangement is not my fault.” Folding his hands again, he paused, seeming to be considering something, before he leaned in closer, tilting his head to get a better look into Geralt’s reddened face. Realizing what O’Dimm was looking at, Geralt turned his head sharply, avoiding the demon’s gaze, but O’Dimm only leaned in closer, the sickening smirk on his thin lips curling wider as he did so.

“Do you always drink this much before confronting your problems?” O’Dimm drawled, the nauseatingly self-satisfied lilt in his voice making Geralt’s stomach turn. “That can’t be healthy, even for you, witcher. I’d invite you to walk and talk, but… I’m afraid you can barely stand.”

Geralt flushed, looking down again, sliding his arm more securely around the sign. O’Dimm was right, of course – he had thought about walking away, but without Dandelion to help him, he doubted he would make it even a few steps before losing his footing and falling in the street. He cursed the bard for his dogged hospitality, as well as his own foolish eagerness to forget his worries, dulling a dilemma he did not want to face with drink after impulsive drink. He was hardly self-conscious about his drinking in general – alcohol was just another toxin in the witcher repertoire, as far as he was concerned – but the thought of O’Dimm having the upper hand and knowing it made him want to vomit, something not even vodka had inspired him to do before.

“Pact with you is void,” Geralt growled, pushing past O’Dimm’s insults. “Didn’t understand the terms. Can’t… uphold a contract, with only… one party… fully informed.”

O’Dimm’s wicked grin widened as he listened to Geralt fumble through his argument, each stumble and slurred word only seeming to entertain him more. “That’s not how this works,” he finally tutted, seeming satisfied the witcher had finished saying his piece. “You agreed to my terms, whether you meant to or not. That part is of little importance to me.” Rubbing his half-gloved hands together, he took another step forward, cornering Geralt against the sign, his sickly smile now so wide on his face it threatened to tear his cheeks ear to ear. “Back out now,” he added, menacingly, “and you immediately forfeit. Are you prepared to deal with that?”

Geralt faltered at the argument, his silver brow furrowing, feeling a sick heat bubbling up from his chest – his ears and cheeks burned, his stomach turning at the thought of a contract he could have avoided, _should_ have avoided, but his head was swimming too strongly with liquor to allow any helpful thoughts to form on that front. This was wrong, he knew; unjust and unethical, against all rules of contract or play, but the path between his mouth and his brain was too jumbled to express any of that at the moment. Every thought was coming through only in garbled, confused slurs, churning out things that, even in his drunken state, he knew should not be said out loud.

“Can’t do this right now,” he finally decided, shaking his head. “Need time to think this over.”

“Of course you do,” O’Dimm returned, seeming perversely pleased with the answer.

Geralt looked up again, thinning his lips, doing his best to focus his swimming vision on the devil; he had suspected O’Dimm would not concede to contract etiquette, but that still did not take the sting out of being shot down at every desperate turn. Even so, Geralt realized there was no point in dwelling on things he had no way to change – he had no power right now, but with that realization came a sudden, desperate thought: perhaps, if he played his cards right, he might be able to use his shortcomings to his advantage. A game played with only one functional participant was hardly a game at all, after all, and if there was one thing O’Dimm enjoyed more than anything, it was playing games.

“Just wanna leave,” Geralt pressed, wearily, allowing his speech to slur freely this time. “Let me go home. Sleep this off. No use to anyone like this.”

O’Dimm gave a soft hum, folding his hands together, resting both index fingers against his chin as he considered the sorry sight. “I _could_ undo my magic,” he agreed, giving a slow, methodical bob of his head. Pausing then, he sucked his lips, his gaze unwavering in his unremarkable face, his eyes unblinking as he stared at the witcher, cold and black as winter coal. “Or…” he added, still speaking slowly, making no effort to hide the amused inflection in his voice. “I could keep the world like this, frozen, until you’re ready to have our conversation. That might give you a chance to sober up a little… but I think you’re rather more fun this way. Or at least, that’s what they tell you… though you never quite remember enough to know if they’re telling the truth.”

Geralt’s face burned at his words being turned against him, all thought of playing the pitied fool quickly leaving him, and he brushed his free hand back against his scabbards, wondering if he would have time to draw before O’Dimm could react. As piss-drunk as he was, he knew he could always manage to swing his sword with competence – he had been trained by Vesemir, after all, who had insisted he treat his weapon as an extension of his psyche, a sixth sense that never faltered or second-guessed, no matter what strain he was under. Rain, sleet, toxic shock, blood loss, blindness, drunkenness and sobriety, he had practiced them all in the courtyards of Kaer Morhen, and he felt his amulet weigh heavy against his heart as he stared O’Dimm down, daring him to make a move.

“What do you want with me?” Geralt snapped, his voice now dark, feeling his lip start to curl. “You using me? What do these tasks do for you?”

“For me?” O’Dimm asked, raising his brows in surprise. “They do nothing for me. You should really consider whose advice you take to heart, witcher. Jacques De Aldersberg has been dead for years. He might not be… the most reliable source.” He tilted his head, smirking at the pun, watching as Geralt’s expression twitched at the entendre. “Perhaps you should seek other opinions,” he added. “Apart from those who once tried to kill you.”

“Like you?” Geralt growled, wavering again against the sign-post.

O’Dimm shrugged, unfolding his hands to hold them out at his sides, nonchalant. “I’ve never tried to kill you personally,” he answered, sounding now almost bored with the conversation. “And that’s not why I came tonight, either. I simply came to let you know that your time _is_ still running… just in case you somehow forgot. Or in case you thought time for some reason did not apply to you. While you wile away, carousing merriment with your old friend, Shani is all alone at Corvo Bianco, with only your house-cook and majordomo to protect her from whatever happens to come… lurking about.”

Geralt frowned at the news, narrowing his eyes as he tried to remember who had been at the house when he had left with Dandelion. “Where is Yen?” he asked, looking up again, knowing well he had left Shani in the sorceress’ care. “Yen would never leave Shani alone. Knows how dangerous it is for her to be there by herself.”

“She used to,” O’Dimm agreed, his malicious smirk widening. “Until you convinced her that the doctor needed her space. Do you not remember your last conversation before heading into town for Shani’s bassinet?” He waited a moment, giving Geralt time to remember, before clearing his throat, resting a hand thoughtfully against his chest. “Shani’s an adult, Yen,” he repeated, mocking the sentiment back in Geralt’s exact voice. “Probably be relieved to have some time to herself.”

Geralt felt his nerves run cold at the sound of his own voice coming from the demon’s mouth, the hair on the back of his neck prickling, shocking his brain into a slightly more sober state than moments before. He had no idea why this facet of O’Dimm’s multitude of powers unnerved him so much – he had heard creatures imitate his voice, even fought a few dopplers who had copied his entire form – but he supposed he had not been expecting it this time, and that was what had caught him so off-guard. He had never heard O’Dimm imitate voices before, and while he supposed it was not so far-fetched considering his other powers, it still made him wonder what other voices he may have heard over time that did not belong to those he had thought them to.

“So what’re you saying?” Geralt insisted, nearly spitting the question. “Yen just… went off, and left Shani alone?”

“Perhaps,” O’Dimm answered, folding his hands again, looking unsettlingly pleased with himself. “Or perhaps Yennefer got called away. Urgent sorceress business, with… unfortunate timing.” He chuckled again, lifting his head, his face growing awash in pale moonlight, but his dark eyes remained untouched as always, no less unsettling than ever before. “She would have no choice but to respond,” he added, sounding entirely pleased with this fact. “She_ is_ still part of the Lodge, after all. And you wouldn’t _believe_ how busy their order is these days. So many things for them to do in their regrouping efforts… it’s a miracle they find time for it all.”

Geralt faltered, wondering for a moment if he was being lied to, and if so, by whom; he was inclined to believe his wife, but he found he could not shake the sense that O’Dimm was telling the truth. Yennefer had told him she was still part of the Lodge, but had framed her involvement as fringe, at most, giving no indication that she might still respond to their summons to confer over new developments. To him, she had only ever mentioned trading letters with Triss on the whereabouts of other members, so the thought that she was still involved in more intimate facets of the Lodge’s interests was unsettling, at best. Still, if that were true, it did give insight into a few other matters of late – such as her lack of shared consciousness and mind-reading between them in the last few months, not wanting to risk him reaching back across their connection to see what she had been hiding.

Looking up at O’Dimm again, Geralt let out a dark huff, thinning his lips. “It was you,” he insisted, in no mood to play games. “You caused whatever made them call Yen away. Lured her out of the house. Set Shani up to be vulnerable.”

“Was it me?” O’Dimm asked, indicating himself with a smirk. “I thought I was here the whole time.” He chuckled at the grim joke, passing a hand across his beggar’s robes, which instantly shifted back into his normal attire, passing from one to the other like a chalkboard being wiped clean. “How I wish that were true, witcher,” he added after a moment, holding up his spoon so the moonlight glinted off its curved head. “But alas, not this time. I’ve done nothing besides plant a seed of knowledge in the magic community vis-à-vis Shani’s… situation. Everything else that befalls you, or her, after that is beyond my control.”

“So you _did_ tell them,” Geralt snapped, clenching his teeth at the admission. “Then why has no one come around yet? You wait for me to get home to do it? Make sure I was there to see it? Never known you to play fair before.” He paused at the thought, his brow furrowing deeper, his bleary eyes searching the cobbled street as he turned the situation over in his head. “No,” he added, more to himself than O’Dimm. “Didn’t wait for me. Just knew they’d never get to Shani through Yen. But now I’m home, Yen thinks it’s okay to leave. Knows I’d be back soon to protect Shani in her absence.”

“You did promise only two drinks,” O’Dimm agreed, his wicked grin widening at the clearly broken word. “And Yennefer still thinks she can trust you. Poor Yennefer. Unfortunately, I’ve never known a drunken man to fight better than a sober one… even a drunken witcher.” Tucking his spoon thoughtfully into his belt, he folded his hands again, resting his index fingers against his chin, taking another agonizingly deep breath as he scrutinized the witcher, considering how much more to tell him. “I do find your predicament… pitiable,” he admitted after another moment. “So I’ll give you a bit of help. Just don’t expect it every time you slip up and stray from your given path.”

“Don’t want your help,” Geralt growled, his lip twitching in a snarl. “Help from you is nothing but trouble. Nearly got me killed last time.”

“The fact of my help does not hinge on your approval,” O’Dimm answered, curtly, seeming unconcerned with Geralt’s assessment. There was a strange stiffness to his answer this time, a slight shift that Geralt could not help but pick up on, though he could not imagine what it was that had caused the subtle change in the demon’s demeanour. “Helping people is what I do,” O’Dimm continued. “Argue that all you like, but it won’t change the truth. People grow desperate, and seek quick solutions, and I am there to offer them exactly what they ask for.” Opening his hands in front of him again, the devil spread them at his sides in a gesture of sincerity.

“I help people, Geralt… albeit not in the way you might expect,” he explained. “I help them to achieve what they truly desire – or barring that, what they truly deserve.”

“And what did Shani do to deserve this?” Geralt hissed, feeling his face burn at the malicious rhetoric.

“Shani? Oh, Shani did nothing,” O’Dimm answered, frankly. “To think that this is still about her just shows you’ve no idea what’s going on. Which I suppose is to be expected, as you’ve shown little initiative to look beyond your cosy walls for answers to anything else.” Chuckling at the revelation, he steepled his hands, his demeanour quickly returning to the wry Cheshire grin of before. “Perhaps you should ask your friend Triss Merigold where tonight’s disturbance came from,” he suggested after another moment, causing Geralt to look up in surprise, having not expected Triss to come up in the conversation. “She might be able to tell you more. But that’s all the help I can offer for now. Don’t want to give _too_ much away, after all. Godspeed, Geralt… and good luck.”

A cold, nauseous shiver sent a prickle down Geralt’s spine at these words, but he had no time to react before the demon was gone again, vanished from their plane as quickly as he had done before in the forest of Marchen. Geralt froze, staring at the spot in the street where mere seconds earlier a man had stood, before a sudden soft breeze brushed his hair across his neck, and an instant later Dandelion’s voice picked up again, right where it had left off. “—A cliff heading home,” Dandelion said, speaking as if he had never been interrupted. “Right onto the rocks. They didn’t find him for a week, and only then because the vultures had gathered so heavily in the area. I suppose it was lucky it wasn’t ghouls, but I don’t know how adept they are at climbing—”

“Dandelion shut up,” Geralt snapped, causing the bard to stop short, taken aback by the hostile tone. “What’s—what’s the recipe for Wives’ Tears? D’you remember? Is it rebis, aether, quebrith, and White Gull?”

Dandelion blinked, seeming a bit hurt by the interruption, but even more confused by the strange question. “Wives’ Tears, the potion?” he asked after a moment, steadying Pegasus’ reigns as the gelding gave a toss of his head. “Are you breaking out your alchemy kit in the middle of the street now? I guess that’s what people have to get used to, living with a witcher in their midst, but—”

“_Dandelion_,” Geralt pressed, gritting his teeth.

“Alright, fine!” Dandelion exclaimed, holding up his hands. “Yes, that’s the damn recipe. You’re the witcher here, Geralt, you’re supposed to remember these things.” He scoffed, propping his hands irately on his hips, before turning away from his friend again, anxiously checking Pegasus’ saddle-bags to make sure they were secure for a bumpy ride. “There has to be a better solution,” he mused, shaking his head at the thought. “If you’re right, and Shani’s in trouble, then I don’t think we have the time—” He stopped short as a new sound began to reach his ears, turning around in time to watch as Geralt shoved the ingredients directly into the carafe of White Gull, stoppering the flask with his thumb and starting to shake it, readying the mixture to drink. Dandelion yelped at the sight, rushing forward to grab at Geralt’s arm to stop him, but Geralt only shook him off, bringing the flask stubbornly to his lips to drink.

“Wait—!” Dandelion exclaimed, gripping his arm in a desperate attempt to pull it away again. “Geralt, what—! You can’t just—you have to brew that for at least an hour! It won’t work if the Gull isn’t a neutralized solvent!” He groaned, clutching his feathered hat, stamping his feet like a child desperate for a privy. “Geralt _stop!_” he pled, his tone frantic. “Those components are unrefined, you have to— boil them in a neutralized base to defuse them down to a safe toxicity—! Quebreth is basically just—powdered sulphur—! Aether has toxic psychotropic mushrooms in it— rebis is made from—mistletoe, it’s poisonous—! Unprocessed White Gull is a hallucinogenic— GERALT!” Grabbing at Geralt’s arm again, he made another attempt to stop him, but the witcher only shook him off again, continuing to down the bastardized potion.

“Geralt, _please!_” Dandelion begged him. “Listen to me! You have to brew it properly or it _won’t properly work_!”

“We don’t have time for that!” Geralt snapped, pulling the flask from his lips to catch his breath. “Used to do it this way all the time, Dandelion. It’s fine. I know what I’m doing.”

“You—” Dandelion huffed, his face growing steadily pinker with exasperation. “You used to eat raw monster mutagens, not whole potion recipes, Geralt—damnit! There’s a big difference between—eating gross raw monster parts and—ingesting _literal_ _poison_, don’t you think?!”

“It’s the same damn concept!” Geralt shot back, angrily. “You’re just a bard, what do you know about potions?!”

“J—_just a bard?!_” Dandelion exclaimed, his voice cracking in indignation. “I studied your alchemy too, you dolt! Yennefer is always telling us we should learn the basics—probably in case you do something _stupid_ like this! I know that’s a wild concept for you, but—GERALT _DON’T DRINK THAT_, for Melitele’s sake!”

Geralt gagged as he finished the potion, coughing as he wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, before he shoved the empty bottle back in his bag, turning to grab for Roach’s saddle. Pulling himself unsteadily into the stirrups, he stopped as he settled atop his horse, swaying a moment as his body readjusted, before a sudden, sickening growl began to furl up from the pit of his stomach. He grimaced at the sensation, gritting his teeth and clutching a hand to his side, but before he could stop it, he gagged, and then heaved, feeling as a dribble of thick fluid bubbled over his lips and into his cupped hand. He made a face at the coppery taste, looking down at his palm to see what he had thrown up, only to realize it was not the potion his body had rejected, but black-red blood, dripping between his fingers into his horse’s fur.

Geralt coughed at the sight, shaking his head to clear it, before wiping some of the blood from his ragged beard onto his sleeve, turning to look over at Dandelion again and jerking his head in the direction of Corvo Bianco. “Let’s go!” he rasped, tasting as another pool of blood began to collect around the base of his tongue. He could feel it seeping between his teeth, and he spat, making an effort not to stare at the black spot in the road. Then, shaking his head again, he pulled on Roach’s reigns, ignoring the look of horror on Dandelion’s face at the gore dripping down his friend’s scruffy chin.

“Come on!” Geralt pressed, pulling Roach around, before driving his heels into her flanks to spur her, feeling as the wind whipped icy across his face, streaking blood from his beard down his neck and across his shirt.

“Geralt wait!” Dandelion shouted, scrambling onto Pegasus and pulling the sleepy gelding around. Pegasus gave a sharp squeal as he felt the bard’s heels digging into his sides, and he bucked a bit, before finally starting to run, fighting hard not to lose the witcher on the road back home.


	13. Tansy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delayed update, it’s been a rough month at work and writing has been difficult. I appreciate so much everyone who has left kudos and comments on the fic so far! I do apologize that it sometimes takes me a bit to be able to respond to things, but it really does make my day bright to know people enjoyed something I made – thank you so much for taking the time to read my work! ♡

The ride back to Corvo Bianco was like something out of a nightmare.

The night loomed heavy like a cloak, the moonlight muddying the path ahead with pools of silver, flickering and wavering in Geralt’s line of sight as he pushed Roach on towards the end of the road. He could feel the pale glow beating down on him like a spotlight, marking him for the vile things that crawled from the darkness – shapes, elongated and infernal, dripping with shadow as they pulled themselves free of the night. They grasped for the witcher and his horse, reaching out with arms that seemed to stretch on forever, slithering under fenceposts and over pebbles in the road as they clutched hungrily for Roach’s pounding hooves.

Geralt dug his boots deeper into Roach’s sides, earning a sharp whinny as she lowered her head, driving ever faster through the gathering night with snorts and wheezes of fear and strain. She could not see what he could see, he knew – she had no idea what dangers lay just ahead in the path. She trusted his instincts because she had to, because she had no other choice but to believe him. He was the witcher, and she was just his horse; he was the one who kept the monsters at bay. He was the one, now, who snapped her reigns, who growled a sharp giddyap in her ear, who pushed her on until her frightened hooves sprayed gravel, keeping her safe from the clutching darkness.

“Geralt!” Dandelion called out desperately from behind him, but his voice sounded distant, distorted and faint, and the witcher shook his head at the sound, clearing his mind of all distraction. He could not afford to be interrupted, not when he knew what lay in store for them at Corvo Bianco. Dandelion was blind— like Roach, like all of them. He had no idea what diabolical dangers lurked just ahead in the dark. He could not see what putrid black shapes crested over the road, their long fingers reaching out to grasp at the riders like a canopy of darkened trees. He could not hear their sinister voices on the breeze, cackling and crackling like a fire of green twigs, the sap still so young in their woody veins it made the flames keen and pop with agony.

The field of sunflowers they had passed on their way into town gave a dry, husky hiss as Geralt rode back past it, the hideous sound reverberating in his ears like the rattle of a giant centipede. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, even as he glimpsed a black shape emerging from its stalks— a shadowy spectre of a worm-like torso, writhing as it loomed above the flowers like a vengeful god. “Look out!” Geralt shouted, yanking his silver sword from its sheath, swiping it through the air and causing Roach to shriek as the metal whistled past her ear. “Ride faster, Dandelion! Don’t give it a chance to target you! We have to get back to the house!”

“Let _what_ target me?!” Dandelion shouted back, pushing Pegasus ever harder to catch up with Roach’s flying hooves. “There’s nothing there, Geralt! Gods, you’re hallucinating! Slow down—_please_, for Melitele’s sake!”

Geralt gritted his teeth at the answer, holding his sword out fiercely at his side as he rode; he was ready to fight, ready to strike out at any shadows that dared try to stop him. He could feel Roach’s heart hammering through her chest, reverberating up his legs to fill his entire form, her pulse beating in time with his in his feverish ears, echoing like the hooves of the Wild Hunt in his head. Another shadow slithered to the side of the road as they careened past, opening wide its shapeless maw to expose its sickly, lanternfish teeth, and Geralt gave a mighty swipe at its amorphous head, sending a milk-bucket perched on the fence flying back towards Dandelion and Pegasus with the impact.

Dandelion yelped as the bucket sailed past him, crouching low to his saddle and clutching his hat, as if hoping it might help protect him from losing his head to another flying obstacle. Geralt did not even seem to notice, holding his sword aloft as he shouted for Roach to press on, her eyes wild with fear as she tossed her head, nearly tripping over her hooves as she galloped on faster. She was frightened, as he knew she would be, but her fear was nothing compared to what lay ahead at Corvo Bianco, and he squeezed his heels to her sides again, urging her to get them home before whatever awaited them had a chance to do its worst.

Roach had barely had time to slow before Geralt dismounted at the manor gate, and she tossed her head with a bluster and whinny as she peeled off into the darkness towards the stables. She was a smart horse, he knew, and she knew where she was going – but he had no time to concern himself with it either way, wiping his bloody mouth with the back of his wrist before starting for the lights of the manor. Dandelion skidded to a halt within the gate a few moments later, pulling back on Pegasus’ reigns to slow him, and he stumbled as he dismounted his flustered gelding, his expensive shoes pounding a noisy pursuit of the witcher up the cobbled path.

Geralt held his sword at his side as he walked, his breathing ragged as he searched the grounds for signs of danger, until he lifted his head with a feral jolt as he noticed a second shape moving up the path towards the house. It was a slender shape, in a large, dark cloak, carrying a woven basket at its side, and the witcher crouched low as he closed in on his unsuspecting target, shaking his head once to clear the gathering darkness from his mind. The night ran thick with shadows, curling in his vision like a desolate fog, the once-twinkling stars all but swallowed up by a thousand red eyes that had taken their place. Geralt’s footfalls were deathly silent as he trailed the figure in the cloak, until his hand darted out like a snake strike, grasping hold of the figure’s thin arm and ripping her around to face him.

The figure gave a shriek as she felt someone grab her arm, before her eyes grew wide at the monstrous visage leering out at her; black-red blood dribbled from Geralt’s mouth into his beard, his bloodshot cat-eyes glowing a ghastly yellow in his vampiric face. The woman screamed, falling to her knees, before turning her face away as the witcher raised his sword— only to be stopped short as his arm was pulled back behind him, with someone attempting to drag him bodily away from the terrified woman.

“Geralt!” Dandelion shouted, using both hands to hold back the witcher’s arm. Geralt yanked back sharply against the restraint, but found he could do little with the bard hanging on so tightly. “Geralt, _stop_!” Dandelion insisted. “Calm down, would you?! That’s—look at her, Geralt! It’s only your gardener! It’s only Lucja—don’t you recognize her?!”

Geralt bared his teeth at the question, showing blood-blackened bone in a wolfish snarl, before he turned his attention to the figure in the cloak again, causing the terrified woman to whine as she felt his hand squeeze around her arm. “Who’s here?” he insisted, giving her a short shake, causing her to swallow the sound with a gasp as she looked up at him again. “When did Yen leave? Who came afterward? You had to have been here then – _TALK!_”

“I don’t know!” the gardener answered, desperately, her voice cracking as another pair of frightened tears skated down her cheeks. “I swear, master witcher – I didn’t catch her name! She only said she was here from the Lodge—”

“The Lodge?” Geralt hissed, gripping her arm tighter, causing the woman to give another sob of fright. “What did she look like? What was she wearing? Did she have dark hair, or red?”

“D-dark hair!” Lucja sobbed, turning her face away from the nightmarish vision. “I didn’t ask questions—I just sent her up to the house to wait! I don’t know nothing about the Lodge, sir, I swear—” But she did not have time to finish before Geralt’s head whipped up towards the house again, and she winced as he let go of her arm, letting out another whimper as red-black blood sprayed in droplets across the front of her dress.

“She’s still here, Dandelion,” Geralt growled, pulling his arm free at last from the bard’s grip. Then, taking another swing at the darkness with his sword, he started once more on the path towards the house, not bothering to check if Dandelion was following behind him as he made his way towards the manor lights.

The garden path swam thick with shadow, bubbling and hissing in miasmic pools, the clicking of creatures best left to the void filling his ears as he pushed past the countless eyes staring out at him from the dark. He could feel something touching him as he walked, the chilling brush of inhuman fingers against his skin, and he sliced at the shadowy sensation, clearing the path towards Shani and the house. Dandelion huffed at the sight of the witcher still hallucinating, before he quickly bent down to check on the terrified gardener, offering a hand to help her to her feet and dusting her off, returning her upturned basket. The woman was stunned, but she seemed unhurt, and he offered her a wan, apologetic smile for her distress, before he quickly turned to start off after his friend again, knowing Geralt was in no condition to confront anyone, let alone a sorceress.

“Geralt, STOP!” Dandelion shouted, cupping his hands to project his voice. “Surely you can see this is madness—_please!_ You’re not in your right mind!” But Geralt heard nothing, and Dandelion could only watch in horror as the witcher approached the manor door, kicking the sturdy slat open with such force that the wood splintered in the shape of his heavy boot.

The door smashed open with a _bang_, crushing the wooden rack he usually hung his swords on against the wall, but Geralt ignored the damage as he made his way inside, his sharp eyes keen as he took in the scene awaiting his arrival. There was a visitor here, just as the gardener had said – a woman, likely a sorceress from the look of her – though not any sorceress he had ever seen before, nor one he recognized from his own dealings with the Lodge. The sorceress had been sitting at the front-room table before he entered, but had risen to her feet as the door slammed open, and she stared at him now with wide, pale-blue eyes, her hands rigid at her sides as she took in the monstrosity in the doorway.

She was a slender woman, with long dark hair, plaited in a circular crown atop her head; she wore a surprisingly austere dress, though the long sleeves had slid down her arms as she stood, revealing her pale shoulders and the tops of her breasts. The bangles on her thin wrists gave a high-pitched rattle as she moved, the sound reminding Geralt strongly of prison chains, and he felt his medallion give a hum as he stared at her, the sensation setting his teeth on edge. He began to take a step forward towards the sorceress, when he heard a sudden voice call out to him from across the room—“Geralt?”—and he stopped, his concentration momentarily broken as looked up to see who had addressed him.

He had not even noticed Shani in the room at first, but now he could see her plain as day, staring intently at him from her place by the fire, her hazel eyes wide at his wild appearance. “Geralt… are you alright?” Shani asked, her voice soft, making his heart beat faster with determination; whoever could think to hurt so gentle a soul was not someone who deserved to share a world with her.

Ignoring her question, Geralt turned his attention to the sorceress again instead, moving across the floor to her and lifting his sword from his side, bringing it up under her chin in one fluid motion. The sorceress gasped as she felt the cold tip of the witcher’s blade brush against her skin, and she froze, her hands stilling at her sides, staring at the witcher as she waited for him to decide her fate. “You’re no member of the Lodge,” Geralt hissed, his sword held steady at the woman’s throat. “Who are you, really? And don’t lie. Got no qualms about killing liars.”

The sorceress whimpered, lifting her chin to avoid contact with his blade. “Thea,” she breathed, her voice thin with terror. “Thea Versade! Please, witcher… I mean you no harm! I only came because I wanted to ask—”

“Know why you came,” Geralt growled, cutting her off. “Heard about the curse. Bounty on Shani’s head. Came to kill her unborn child.” The sound of something clattering from behind them nearly caught his attention, but he kept his gaze fixed on the sorceress, barely glimpsing as Shani took a step back, so startled by his words that her teapot had dropped from her hands to the floor. Thea trembled, not looking up at the sound, held in place by the witcher’s sword, before she slowly began to raise her hands, lifting them to her sides in a sign of surrender.

“I heard a rumour,” Thea explained, softly. “There was talk among magic-users about a witcher. They said you’d learned how to reverse the effects of magic-induced sterility.” She swallowed nervously, glancing down at his blade, before looking up into his terrifying face once more. “I only came to ask how you did it,” she said, her voice shaking with fear. “I had no intention of hurting your wife. I know nothing about a curse, or a bounty—”

“Not my wife,” Geralt snapped, his hand tightening around the blade. “My wife is Yennefer of Vengerberg. Know that if you actually came to talk to me.” Keeping his sword trained at the sorceress’ throat, he took a step back towards the table, reaching down to pick up Shani’s teacup and watching as Thea’s eyes grew wide at the motion. He lifted the cup to his nose, before pulling back, making a face at the smell, his yellow eyes flashing as he looked up furiously at the sorceress again. “Pennyroyal,” he hissed. “You put pennyroyal in Shani’s tea.”

“What? N-no,” Thea insisted, stammering. “It’s only mint, I swear—!”

“Know what mint smells like,” Geralt shot back, gritting his teeth. “That’s not mint. Trying to force a miscarriage with toxic herbs.” From the corner of his eye, he could see a flash of plum satin moving around the table towards Shani, before the bright shape entered his line of sight, materializing into Dandelion wrapping a protective arm around the doctor’s waist. Turning his gaze to the sorceress again, Geralt shoved the cup of tea towards her over the polished edge of his sword, his expression hard as he stared her down, daring her face to betray her knowledge of what was in the cup.

“Drink it,” he told her, his voice cold as ice.

“…What?” Thea asked, her brow shooting up in surprise.

Geralt nodded towards the cup, pushing it towards her face again. “Drink it,” he insisted, darkly. “If it’s just mint, drink it.” The sorceress stared up at him, eyes wide, seeming to be wondering when this gruesome mania would pass, but Geralt only clenched his teeth, the hand on the cup as steady as the one on his blade. “Go on,” he pressed, his voice guttural, lip curling, his bloodied teeth and eyes making him look more ghoul than man. “Just mint. Harmless. Said so yourself. _Drink. The. Tea._”

“_Geralt_,” Shani spoke again, more firmly this time – Geralt nearly faltered, but he kept his gaze fixed on the sorceress, not letting her out of his sight. He could hear a low hiss from the fireplace as Shani spoke, the sound of Dandelion urging her to _please stay quiet_, but it seemed the medic would not be deterred, and she pursed her lips, becoming at once the medical professional she had trained to be. She had worked on the frontlines of Redania for nearly a third of her life, Geralt remembered; she had seen men driven to desperation in war, seen the lengths humanity would go to to survive. She was not afraid of conflict or death, though he knew she had every right to fear both in this moment, and she squared her slim shoulders, steeling her brow, commanding the witcher’s attention.

“Geralt, _stop_,” Shani insisted, causing Geralt to look up in surprise this time. “Put down the sword. I can see you’re not well. This doesn’t have to end in violence.”

“Not the one who brought violence here,” Geralt growled, pushing the tip of his blade into the sorceress’ throat. Thea whimpered, reaching out to take the teacup at last, before pulling it back towards her with shaking hands, swallowing hard and feeling the lump in her throat press against the sword at her neck. Geralt felt his lip twitch as he watched her look down into the cup, before she lifted her frightened face to his again, her pale eyes wide as she looked up into the gruesome features staring back at her across the blade. “Bitch knows why she’s here,” Geralt snarled, his voice low, his gaze intense as he glared back at the sorceress over his sword. “Knew magic or violence’d be too easy to trace. Figured herbs’d look natural. Thought she could get away with it.”

“Please,” Thea begged, softly, shaking her head. “I did no such thing, witcher. I only came to speak to you—”

“Drink the tea,” Geralt commanded, gritting his teeth. “Got one way out of this. Then we’ll talk.”

Thea’s lip trembled, and she took a deep breath, staring up into the witcher’s haunting yellow eyes, her fingers pinching fearfully around the edge of her cup as she held it tightly, preparing to make her choice. He could hear a soft bubbling from somewhere as she stared at him, a hissing, as if from something boiling gently over a fire, but he kept his gaze fixed on her face, unblinking, watching as she lifted the cup to her lips. The steam from the liquid curled around her face, rising from the cup in a hot, hazy coil, and Geralt faltered at the sight, realizing too late that the cup had been cold when he had handed it over only moments earlier.

Geralt started to raise his sword, but he was not fast enough to stop the sorceress, and she turned the cup, splashing hot tea in his face, causing him to howl as he reached up to clutch at his burning skin. Taking advantage of his distraction, Thea reached out, forcing the witcher’s blade to his side, and Geralt grabbed blindly for his attacker, feeling his fist catch in the material of her dress as they grappled. He dragged her in closer, preparing to gut her—only to find himself thrown violently back with a burst of her magic, colliding with the front-room table and causing it to break half with the impact. Geralt flinched as a shower of glass and porcelain rained down on him, throwing up his hands to protect his eyes, before he lay back against the splintered wood, giving another pained cough, feeling his beard run blackish-red with blood.

The air sizzled like fire around him, the candles melting in their broken holders across the floor, and he looked up with effort at the sorceress again, watching as she turned on him with a wild expression in her ghostly eyes. “You should have stayed in town, witcher,” she hissed, making no effort to hide her intentions anymore – the room swam and flickered with heat mirage, the paintings curling and dripping in ghastly distortions down the walls. “This could have been so easy. I was trying to be merciful. But now you and your pregnant sow have given me no other choice.”

Geralt gritted his teeth at the insult to Shani, bracing his elbows against the broken glass, before he dragged himself painfully back to his feet, lifting his sword to face off with the sorceress again. Thea sneered at the sight, lifting a hand to send a tendril of light hissing towards the witcher like a whip, and he lifted his sword to block it – only to watch as the beam wrapped around the blade, causing the metal to glow bright red as it was infused with magical heat. Geralt shouted in pain as the sword burned his hands, yanking back on the beam and nearly taking the sorceress with him – but she managed to let go just in time, and she stumbled back, before lifting her hands to produce more magic.

Geralt made a quick Sign at his side, cooling his blade with a controlled cast of Aard, before he looked up towards the sorceress again, just in time to block her next spell with a quick cast of Quen. He could feel the Signs wearing him down, the rising temperature causing his stamina to wane; his head throbbed like it had been crushed by a rock troll, but he gritted his teeth, staggering back as he lifted his sword to swing at the sorceress again.

Thea pursed her lips at the show of bravado, getting ready to cast another spell, before she suddenly turned, looking back towards the fireplace, where a flicker of movement had caught her eye. Geralt looked over towards the fireplace as well, wanting to know what had caught her attention, and he felt his gut sink as he spotted Dandelion trying to rush Shani from the room in the commotion. Before Geralt could stop it, the sorceress’ hand bolted out like a shot towards Dandelion, sending a flash of red light speeding his way and causing him to yelp as the spell collided with his back. Geralt flinched as he heard the sharp _crack_ of the bard’s skull making contact with the end of the bannister, but he had no time to check if his friend was alright before blocking another spell from the sorceress with a cast of Quen.

“Fool,” Thea hissed, raising a hand to throw more magic the witcher’s way. Geralt signed for Quen again, but it fizzled out quickly, and he looked up in time to watch the spell connect, hitting him full force like a battering ram and sending him flying across the room once again. This time, he collided with a suit of witcher armour on display, and he shouted in agony as the mannequin collapsed, the long screw holding it upright puncturing through his thigh as he fell on top of it. Thea sneered at his pain, her outline fiendish and distorted through the shimmer of heat mirage, before she lifted her hands to her sides again, causing a blistering wind to pick up at her feet.

“Look at you!” she exclaimed, her voice warping eerily in the whirlwind of magic around her; the gale churned angrily in her wake, billowing her dress and dark hair into ripples of blackish flame. “What kind of father would you even be?_ Look_ at yourself, witcher! You’re a monster!” Geralt glared at the sorceress, baring his teeth, before spitting another tongueful of blackened blood at her feet, and she smirked at the sight, raising her hands even higher, causing the glowing winds to pick up more furiously around her. “A beast like you doesn’t _deserve_ children,” she hissed, her voice digging like fishhooks under his skin. “You know as well as I do I’d be doing this child a favour by stopping it from coming into this world.”

Geralt felt his heart clench at her words, but he could only watch as she turned away from him again, this time holding her hands out towards Shani and sending tendrils of light flying across the room towards the doctor. Shani gasped as the beams of light surrounded her, watching as they wound around her like a glowing constrictor, before she started to scream as the spell contracted, lifting her into the air in its blistering coils. The smell of burning fabric assaulted Geralt’s senses, and he gritted his teeth, fighting to stand, only to fall back down again quickly as a shock of anguish shot through him from the wound at his thigh. He hissed at the pain, coughing again, his breathing growing ragged as his heart beat ever faster, making his skin pulse with toxicity as his pain was replaced with the rage of a wild animal.

He could feel the adrenaline coursing through him, his bloody sclera turning black and sickly, his glowing irises boring out from them like the eyes of a possessed wolf. He could feel the sensation of freezing needles across his skin as his veins surged to the surface, coursing black and ghastly across his face and neck, his muscles vibrating with tension as he reached back, pulling the metal spike from his wound. He could feel his body already breaking down as he reached out an aching hand for his sword, the heat and poison making his skin run hot and cold as he picked the weapon up with effort from the floor beside him. His arms shook with pain as he gripped the sword, pulling it slowly towards himself across the floor, but he lifted it anyway, piercing it down into the wood and using the leverage to drag himself back to his feet.

Sliding his hand up the polished edge, Geralt pulled himself up with the sword’s pommel, before yanking the blade free from the floor and starting to limp towards the sorceress again, dragging the weapon behind him. He felt nothing anymore – no pain, no fear. Not when he could hear Shani’s screams reverberating in his skull. Not when he could smell the magic burning her skin, threatening her life and his child’s. The sorceress did not even turn around as Geralt dragged his last steps behind her, watching as she pressed her hands closer together, grinning with malice as she watched the doctor writhe in her grasp. Thea was a sadist – the exact kind of person Geralt had expected to respond to O’Dimm’s curse – and he dragged his sword upward, breathing heavily as his weary arms shook with the weight.

Lifting the blade over his shoulder, Geralt wound back, preparing for a blow he could not stand to miss. “That…” he panted, feeling his lungs burn with every breath. “That’s… MY… _CHILD!_”

The scream caught the sorceress by surprise, and she turned, her eyes widening at the vision before her – but she had no chance to react before his blade came down across her neck, cleaving her head from her shoulders, sending it flying across the room to collide with the painting above the fireplace. The headless body stayed upright for a moment, frozen in gory stasis, before a fountain of blood began to spout from the severed neck, and she finally collapsed to her knees, toppling into a heap at the witcher’s feet.

Geralt stared at the corpse for a long moment, watching as a pool of crimson began to seep from the bloody neck, leaking out onto the front-room rug and down into the grain of the floor. He sneered to himself at the sight, taking a step back as fingers of gore began to creep up his boots, watching as the leather turned ruby-black with the sorceress’ blood as a dark silence filled the room. Shani gasped as the magic around her dissipated, giving a sharp yelp as she fell back to the hardwood floor, before shuddering in pain and disbelief as she sat up, starting to run her hands across her shoulders to check for burns. She looked utterly lost, dazed and hurt, but her expression changed when she spotted the sorceress’ head on the floor beside her, and she quickly kicked it away with a terrified scream, before finally collapsing into traumatized tears.

She was bruised, burned, bloodied from the severed head, her loose clothing frayed and black with the scalds of heat magic, and Geralt looked up at the sound of her distress, wanting to help – until something from a corner of the fireplace wall caught his eye. It had been barely enough to notice, just the faintest hint of something not right, but with his senses still on high alert, even one small thing was enough to make him paranoid. He squinted at the wall, taking a slow step forward, causing Shani’s brow to furrow as she watched him approach.

“Geralt?” she asked, her voice quiet, concerned, seeming wary to draw his attention. “Geralt, you look terrible. Let me take a look at you—”

“See that?” Geralt hissed, cutting her off. “Something up there. Dunno—” He stopped, staring at the wall, watching as a small drip of oily black liquid began to seep through the paint, narrowing his eyes as he watched it slide slowly all the way to the bottom. He clenched his jaw at the sight, not trusting whatever mystery fluid was leaking into his house, but he had no time to think before he saw another drip come through, and then another, and another. He took a step back, watching in horror as the entire wall soon began to run slick with black fluid, before the mystery liquid began to change before his eyes, growing thick and noxious, gaining momentum as it continued to roll down the wall like bubbling tar.

“Shani,” Geralt hissed, waving a hand towards the doctor. “Move away from the wall! Need to get you out of here—it’s in the house now…!”

“What—?” Shani glanced back at the wall behind her, before turning back again with a bewildered frown. “There’s nothing there, Geralt,” she assured him, worriedly. “What’s going on? What did you do to yourself?”

Her voice was distorted in his head as she spoke, warped and faint, as if through a wall of water, and Geralt watched in horror as the simmering sludge behind her began to wind and writhe, the dark tendrils twisting around themselves into limb-like appendages. They slithered and grasped, their spider-like fingers stretching long and sinister in distorted arrays, and he lifted his sword, swinging at the dark shapes, causing them to hiss and gurgle as they snapped out of the way of his blade. “Don’t touch her!” he shouted, barely faltering as he heard a faint scream that sounded almost like Shani – but it could not be Shani, he told himself. Shani had to know he was protecting her. He staggered back, cutting wildly through the air, feeling his heart racing, his pulse thundering in his ears, before he looked up again, watching as a forest of antler-like arms began to emerge from the stone wall, dripping and black.

The arms bent and stretched, cracking and popping with the sound of breaking bones as they grew ever longer, their whispering and hissing growing louder in his head as they snaked their ravenous way towards Shani. “They’re here,” Geralt breathed, feeling warm blood start to drip into his mouth as he spoke; his nose had begun to bleed profusely, but he had no time to bother with that right now. He could taste blood pooling at the base of his gums, dripping into his beard and across his shirt, but he did not bother to spit it out this time, only taking a step back, holding his sword out to brace against the gathering darkness. “It’s here,” he hissed, spraying blood as he spoke, the gore dripping from his teeth in a tendril of blackened saliva. “The shadows… the darkness… O’Dimm… he’s here…! He’s everywhere…! Shani, look out—!”

Shani lifted her head at the warning, her eyes growing wide with terror as she watched him approach; he stared at a spot just above her head, where an enormous, horned shadow creature had grown from the blackened sludge. Its eyes glowed white in its misshapen skull, its claws sharp as knives as it bent over the doctor, letting out a hiss like a rattlesnake as it opened its jaws around her unsuspecting head. It looked like everything and nothing – an abomination with the claws of a leshen and the maw of a crocodile, its antlered rack stretching like a pit of spikes as it encircled Shani, preparing to swallow her whole. Geralt gritted his teeth at the monster, lifting his blade to slice the creature in two, and Shani screamed, throwing her hands over her head—

But the blow never came. Instead, she only heard the sound of something hitting the floor with a _thud_, and when she looked up again, it was to see the witcher lying face-down on the rug, out cold. Behind him in the door stood Yennefer, who huffed affrontedly as she stared down at her unconscious husband, before she used her magic to gently set down the metal statuette she had used to knock him out.

“I always thought that fixture was hideous,” Yennefer said, looking down at the nearly-nude statue. “Good to know it has its uses after all.” Then, looking up at Shani again, she stepped over her husband, careful not to touch the headless sorceress as she made her way over to kneel beside the doctor on the floor.

Taking Shani into her arms, Yennefer held her gently against her shoulder, cooing to her quietly and stroking her hair as she felt the first tears of terror fall from the young woman’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Shani,” she told her, pressing a reassuring kiss to the top of the doctor’s head. Shani was barely older than Ciri, Yennefer remembered, a fact which had never felt more relevant than right now. “I had no idea something like this would happen,” she said, feeling guilt pool in her stomach at the admission. “I’m so sorry. But it’s over now. It’s done. I won’t be leaving you again.”

“I’m sorry, Yennefer,” Shani sobbed, holding the sorceress tightly with an arm around her back. “I had no idea… I just wanted to help people. I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong—”

“You weren’t,” Yennefer assured her, petting her soft hair. “You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. People are wicked, and they despise change. That’s all. It has nothing to do with you.”

Shani sniffled at the answer, wiping at her eyes with the end of her overlong sleeve; her shirt was frayed and blackened with burns, but she barely seemed to notice, turning her attention to Geralt on the floor instead. “We should get him to bed,” she said, sniffling again, before looking up at Yennefer with an anxious expression. “He was hallucinating badly before you came,” she told her. “Talking about… darkness, and shadows. In my eight years of practice I’ve never seen anyone act like that. I don’t think it was a drug or a spell, but…” She paused, her voice trailing off again, and Yennefer could not help feeling concerned for the young medic; she was hiccupping for breath still, her eyes red with tears, but she sucked her lips determinedly, unwilling to let it get her down.

“If someone was trying to kill me, it’s possible they tried to poison Geralt first,” Shani suggested, thoughtfully. “It would certainly be much easier to get to me without having a witcher around to stop them. I don’t really know the effect of poison on witchers, but… it’s my best guess, for the time being.” She frowned, her pretty brow creasing, before she turned to look over towards Dandelion, still crumpled against the foot of the stairs. “We should do something for Julian, too,” she said, her voice tender with worry, though Yennefer doubted there was much reason for it – from the look of things, the bard had merely bumped his head, and would wake easily with only a headache, though she figured they could expect some whinging and woemongering as well, if Dandelion was to be counted on. “He tried to protect me from the mage as well. It was noble of him, if… somewhat rash.”

“Foolish, you mean,” Yennefer corrected, bluntly, having no patience to sugar-coat her thoughts. “He could’ve been killed, standing up to a sorceress like that. He’s only human—” She stopped, realizing now was not the time, before taking a deep breath to collect herself, running a gentle hand through Shani’s fiery hair as she tried to figure out a more sympathetic response. “Being human is more than enough,” she said at last, her voice quieter, realizing it was the truth. “Dandelion will be fine. Don’t worry about him. Some smelling-salts and warm mead and he’ll be good as new.”

Yennefer smiled at the doctor, giving her one last reassuring squeeze, before she pushed herself back to her feet again, turning next to offer her hands to Shani and helping the doctor stand as well. Shani let out a tired huff as she straightened, resting a hand to the small of her back, before she pulled up the edge of her oversized shirt, checking for burn-marks across her stomach. “Mostly superficial,” she murmured, running a tender finger along a stripe of bright pink; the skin had bubbled and puckered with the heat magic, but the effect seemed no worse than a deep sunburn. “The baby should be fine,” she determined, nodding. “I guess the only option now is to wait and see.”

Looking up at Yennefer again, Shani paused, considering the sorceress for a moment, before she lifted her shirt a bit higher, indicating the banded skin with a sheepish gesture. “Did… you want to touch it?” she asked, softly, causing Yennefer to look up in surprise, her violet eyes wide. For as long as Shani had known her, Yennefer had always been the pinnacle of poise and composure, but now she seemed barely able to control her expression, her lips twitching as she pressed them into a crooked, awkward line. Her breathing was staggered as she stared at Shani, her hands stiff and uncomfortable at her sides, until she finally raised one, reaching out nervously to brush her fingertips against the exposed skin of the doctor’s stomach.

Yennefer faltered as her fingers made contact, seeming wary to try for anything more, before she allowed her palm to rest gently against Shani’s stomach, letting out a soft, bewildered breath at the feeling. “It’s really in there,” she said, the words tumbling awkwardly from her mouth before she could stop them. She had no idea why she said it that way; there had never been doubt in her mind that Shani was actually pregnant, of course, but feeling the warm bump beneath her palm just made it all the more real, somehow. She had always imagined how it might feel to run her hand across the growing swell of a child, but it had always seemed such an abstract concept for her that she was now completely unprepared for the experience.

She could feel herself smiling, the muscles of her face acting of their own accord, impossible to stop – until her smile suddenly dropped, and she took a step back, retrieving her hand with a startled expression. “I’m… sorry,” she said, softly, seeming half embarrassed, half disturbed. “I… I didn’t mean to, I just…” She trailed off, sucking her lip in worry, before she quickly shook her head, cutting the topic short. “It doesn’t matter,” she determined. “We should get you to bed soon. You need your rest more than anyone, after what happened tonight.”

Shani frowned at the strange reaction, allowing her shirt to fall over her stomach again. “Is something wrong?” she asked, her voice soft with worry. “I hope I didn’t offend you. I only thought… because Geralt did it—”

“I should get him to bed, too,” Yennefer returned, shortly, cutting Shani off before she could finish. “You should put as little strain on yourself as possible. You’re going to need your strength.” She paused, looking down at Geralt again, her gaze distant, as if she were staring through the bloody rug and into the floor. “Don’t worry about Geralt and Dandelion,” she added. “Barnabas-Basil can help me with them. Goodnight, Shani.”

Shani faltered, wavering in place, unsure what she had done to earn such a curt dismissal. She knew Yennefer had her own feelings about the pregnancy; it was impossible not to notice them, no matter how hard the sorceress tried. She was a good actress, but Shani was a medic, and she had seen enough women break down at the news of their own barrenness to recognize the look in her eyes, the faintest flicker of sadness and jealousy the sorceress tried so hard to stifle. Despite this, Yennefer had never shown anything but kindness to Shani thus far, so the thought that that might have changed simply because the baby was conscious and moving now seemed a bit strange.

“If I could give this baby to you, I would,” Shani spoke after a moment, causing Yennefer’s brow to furrow in surprise. She did not look back at Shani as she spoke, but her expression had intensified, letting the doctor know she was still listening. “You deserve children more than anyone,” she added, speaking softer this time, making sure only Yennefer could hear. “It isn’t fair to have something taken away just so you can be of more use to others. It wasn’t fair for Geralt, and it isn’t fair for you. I wish I could do something to help.”

Yennefer paused at the offer, her violet gaze intense, before she gave a soft huff, her lips twisting in a bitter smirk. “You’d be the first then,” she answered, quietly. “You should get some rest, Shani. …Goodnight.”

* * *

The forest was darker than Geralt remembered, its gathering of overhanging branches knitting together to form a shadowy canopy, choking out what little dappled light had before trickled its way through to illuminate spots of ground beneath his feet. It was hotter than the first time he had been here, a wet heat of stagnant exhaled air, making it so muggy he could feel sweat trickling down his arms and the back of his shirt. The snow that had joined De Aldersberg had clearly melted, leaving the ground soggy and unstable, and it squelched unsettlingly beneath his boots as he took a step forward across the carpet of sinking spoons; there was an eerie silence to the forest, a mired mutedness that reminded him of stale pond water, and he reached up a hand, wiping away a trickle of sweat from his eyes with a frustrated hiss.

The forest smelled of bog rot and trampled leaves, the reek of death growing heavy in his senses, and Geralt grimaced at the foul stench, reaching back for his sword, unsure what awaited in the darkness, but wary to find out. “Witcher,” a low voice greeted him at last, drawling out every pretentious syllable, and he turned at the familiar voice, taking only a moment to process who had joined him this time. These dreams were all the same, he was starting to realize – O’Dimm’s best attempts to disarm him, to put him off his guard – but he refused to be unsettled, holding his expression even as his stomach turned at the sight of his newest companion.

Where before there had been nothing but himself in the clearing, there now sat a wide stump, and atop it, a tall, stately man, his expensive clothing stitched in affluent detail, his outline striking, even in the semi-darkness of the trees. He had wide shoulders, befitting one of his dignified stature, but between them there existed only a stump, a bloodied pulp of a neck, as if the lifeless body had been left propped up in the clearing by some sadistic puppeteer. How the headless man had managed to address him was baffling, but it took Geralt only a moment to realize where the voice had come from, and he stared down pointedly at the severed head sitting in the man’s lap, perched precariously against one sharp knee as his other hand rested against the opposite thigh.

The dark eyes of the head moved up to meet his curious gaze, watching Geralt as intensively as he was watching it – the headless man’s hands were long and slender, the hands of a practiced mage, but his face was that of a young man, strikingly handsome, with dark hair swept back in the style of one who took great pride in his grooming. Geralt felt a muscle twitch in his jaw as he took in the man’s appearance, before he rounded on the mage, ignoring the sensation of spoons sinking into the dirt beneath his feet.

“Vilgefortz,” he snarled, his lip curling to bare his wolfish teeth. “Can’t say I’m much happier to see you than I was to see De Aldersberg.”

“Were I alive, I might be offended,” Vilgefortz answered, his tone sounding almost bored. “Regardless, I bear no ill will towards you, Geralt. You were only doing what you felt you had to do.” Geralt felt his lip twitch at the snide remark, but he said nothing, only watching as Vilgefortz took a deep breath, his disembodied chest moving eerily in time with his severed head. “I gave you the opportunity to join me, but you had other ambitions,” Vilgefortz continued after another moment. “I can’t fault you for that. Nor can I fault you for protecting your woman. It’s only natural that a man should wish to protect what’s his.”

“Don’t think we share the same feelings on that,” Geralt returned, the answer low and vicious in his chest. “Saw how you treated Lydia before she died. Can’t say I was impressed with your views on women.”

Vilgefortz sneered at the reminder, the edge of his handsome nose flattening as his lip curled in disdain. “Lydia wasn’t a woman, witcher,” he said, almost spitting the name as he repeated it. “She was barely a person. An apprentice, talented in her craft, but hardly worth worrying over the pitiful fate of.” Geralt felt a simmer of bile rise in his gut, remembering how the poor girl had idolized Vilgefortz – how she had been manipulated by him, mangled by his curiosity, and then, when she was no longer useful, discarded like an old handkerchief. She had ended her own life at his behest, and he in turn had left her to bleed out on the floors of Thanedd Island, giving himself and Rience time to pursue Ciri while the others were distracted by his apprentice’s untimely demise.

“She had no potential to change the world,” Vilgefortz continued after a moment, causing Geralt to look up again, feeling a spiteful heat rising to his face the longer he listened to the mage’s vile rhetoric. “Not like you, Geralt. Not like Yennefer, or Ciri. Not like me, or Jacques De Aldersberg. And certainly not like Gaunter O’Dimm.” The mention of O’Dimm got Geralt’s attention, and he frowned, waiting for Vilgefortz to go on, wondering what the mage could possibly have to say about the demon’s involvement in his contemptable work. Vilgefortz’s spiteful sneer widened as he thought, before he took another deep, contemplative breath, his well-tailored chest moving eerily in and out as a small trickle of blood began to seep from his severed neck.

“I had no inkling of O’Dimm when I strove to assist in the removal of the Usurper from Nilfgaard’s throne,” Vilgefortz went on, seeming oddly self-righteous now, as if bitter he had been denied the chance to defend himself thusly in life. “I merely saw benefit for myself in reinstating Emhyr to the title of Emperor. Goëtia was never my forte… that was reserved for the annals of Oxenfurt, the experiments of Rissberg Castle. I never stooped to involve myself in such… unsavoury subjects, back then.” The mage paused a moment, thinking this over, before his mouth began to twist in an irritated gash. “I was prideful in my studies,” he admitted, letting out a sharp sigh. “And thus, woefully unprepared for what might seek to target me for my gifts. Therein lay my mistake… he enjoyed those who showed an interest in him, those who sought to understand him better.”

“Like Professor Shakeslock,” Geralt observed, reaching up to wipe a sheen of sweat from his forehead.

Vilgefortz thought another moment before responding. “One example,” he finally agreed. “Of course, O’Dimm determined he was too dangerous to live freely in his knowledge… but he gave him an out, allowed him to continue living so long as it was on the devil’s own terms. He gave us no such choice… we had snubbed his plans, so he saw to it that we, in turn, were snuffed out.” He narrowed his eyes at the thought, before his dark irises began to climb slowly upward again, moving until they settled unnervingly on the witcher’s face once more. “Of course, he used that to his advantage as well,” he observed. “There was never an event he couldn’t twist to his needs. He had… interests, in Angren and Lyria, which were handled quite nicely by Emhyr’s invading forces.”

Geralt frowned at the mention of Lyria, unsure what interest O’Dimm could possibly find there. “Remember when Nilfgaard invaded Lyria and Rivia,” he agreed, nodding in spite of himself. “Our group intervened during their attack on the Red Lobinden’s bridge. Halted our journey, but managed to drive them back from the northern banks.” He paused, realizing he was once again allowing himself to lean into baseless conspiracy, but he found it difficult to combat the points Vilgefortz was making when he had been there to witness some of them, himself. “Found a letter later, after things got quiet again,” he added, speaking lower now, as if the memory had just occurred to him. “Talked about some man… Ritterhof, I think. Made a pact which could only be collected on when the sun rose over Rivia in the dead of night.”

“And to think,” Vilgefortz jeered, causing Geralt to look up again, his silver brow furrowing. “He saw to my death for defying his plans, then used my good work to collect on his debts.” He paused, his lip curling, before he finally let out a soft, disgusted huff. “Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time,” he admitted, snidely. “He always finds ways of getting what he wants, in the end. No matter who he has to use in the process.”

Geralt made a face at the unsettling news, before clearing his throat, noticing that it was starting to scratch; he was getting thirsty, but without any water, there was nothing he could do to soothe his parched condition. “So what does this have to do with my tasks?” he asked, trying to push the uncomfortable feeling from his mind.

Vilgefortz shrugged, his headless body moving in time with the arch of one of his shapely brows. “Nothing, I suppose, if you find no relevance to your situation in any of it,” he answered, simply. “I merely find it interesting that so many things seem to connect back to one who was pulling the strings so silently until now. Right until you exposed him for who he was, brought him to light… and made him incredibly bold in the process.” Geralt felt his stomach turn at the thought, but he held his expression, hardly daring to even blink, not letting on to the mage how disturbing it was to think that his actions had anything to do with O’Dimm’s current reign of terror.

“He enjoys the spotlight, now you’ve given him a taste of it,” Vilgefortz continued, seeming not to catch the subtlety of the witcher’s expression. “He sees no reason to hide in the shadows any longer. And why should he? He’s nearly completed his goal. Nearly eliminated all threats to his power. And once he does that, he will be unstoppable.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted. “Pretty thin logic. Still seems like coincidence to me.”

“You and I both know there’s no such thing as coincidence, witcher,” Vilgefortz sneered, his free hand curling angrily over his unburdened knee. “Everything O’Dimm does is in an effort to destroy what he can’t control. I was a Source, as was Jacques De Aldersberg. And now we’re both dead, at your hand.”

“You?” Geralt asked, frowning at the information. “Thought Sources were only born of Elder Blood.” It was getting steadily hotter in the clearing, he realized, though he had to wonder if it might not simply be his imagination – it was unsettling enough to be brought back here again and again, without the added worry that someone was trying to slow-broil him in his armour.

Vilgefortz stared at him, his dark eyes narrowing, his broad mouth drawing into a thin, thoughtful line. He did not seem affected by the heat at all, Geralt noticed, making him wonder, again, if it was something only he could feel. “It’s more common for Elder Blood to produce Sources down bloodlines,” Vilgefortz admitted. “And their Sources are usually more powerful – but that’s not always the case. Deidre Ademyne was a Source, as you remember, and she had no Elder Blood to speak of. You chose not to kill her, however, despite her transgressions… perhaps, had I been a shapely woman, you might have spared me your blade as well.”

“Funny,” Geralt growled, feeling his jaw clench at the snide remark. “Deidre gave up her magic and witcher studies to pursue a path in politics. Doubt she even remembers how to use her powers now.”

“So you nullified her,” Vigefortz observed, widening his eyes to stare up at the witcher, pointedly. “Put her in a position where she could either denounce her abilities, or suffer retribution. Much like you nullified Ciri by placing her on the throne of Nilfgaard.”

“Didn’t put Ciri on the throne,” Geralt argued, his hackles rising at the accusation. “Ehmyr offered it up on condition of her return, and she took it to keep her people safe.” Despite his defensiveness, he could not help feeling a bit unsettled that Vilgefortz seemed to know so much about what was going on after his death – this was only a dream, of course, but it was still disconcerting to think that someone so insidious might still be silently keeping track of events going on in Geralt’s world. “Gave up her freedom to make life better for Nilfgaard’s citizens,” he added, doing his best not to let on to Vilgefortz how much he disliked the topic. “Didn’t force her to do anything. Did it all of her own accord.”

“And that’s the real difference, isn’t it?” Vilgefortz pressed, seeming undeterred in his point. “There’s nothing keeping her there, if she decided to leave. She could any day go back to her old life, begin practicing her navigator magic again.” He paused a moment, allowing his statement to sink in, his dark eyes never leaving Geralt’s uncomfortable face. “And she is a powerful navigator, isn’t she?” he added, speaking again after a moment of no response. “Anyone who can portal through time and space is enough to be feared by anyone. That’s why you tried to kill Caranthir, wasn’t it? Another Source, another navigator too powerful to exist of his own volition.”

“Killed Caranthir because he tried to hurt Ciri,” Geralt shot back, gritting his teeth at the question. “Same reason I killed you. Had nothing to do with being a Source. You know that better than anyone.” Furrowing his brow, he reached up again to wipe a blanket of sweat from his forehead; it had become so hot by now that he could feel his vision starting to waver, the sound of the mud hissing beneath his feet growing snake-like and sinister as the spoons continued to sink into the dirt. It was boiling in the forest, a wet heat that soaked his hair and through his clothes, causing sweat to pool in the insoles of his boots, stewing his feet in their casings. The trees had formed a kind of crucible around him, a sweltering oven choked in infernal blackness, and he cleared his parched throat, blinking sweat from his eyes, feeling the sting of salt water as it beaded heavily on his lashes.

“Certainly I do,” Vilgefortz answered his question, simply, drumming his fingers pensively against his thigh, the sound causing the wet hair on Geralt’s neck to stand on end. “I know you didn’t _intend_ to target him for being a Source. Much like you didn’t intend to kill me for that reason, nor Jacques De Aldersberg. Yet we’re dead now, aren’t we? For one reason or another.” He paused in his drumming, his hand stilling against his knee, his dark eyes narrowing again as he stared pointedly up at the witcher. “Funny how your actions nearly always end with our deaths,” he commented, speaking slowly. “Almost as if everything had been set up to pit you against us, specifically.”

Geralt huffed at the argument, wishing he could will himself to wake up, forcing himself to think through the heat that weighed down on his mind like an anvil. “That’s what De Aldersberg said, too,” he growled. “Insinuated O’Dimm had some hand in all your deaths. But I had legitimate reasons for killing you. Had nothing to do with O’Dimm.”

“Keep telling yourself that, witcher,” Vilgefortz answered, his tone flat, dark, clearly in no mood to hear logic outside his own. “It appears my word alone is not enough to persuade you otherwise. But don’t be so hasty to believe him blindly, either. Think carefully of what your tasks might imply… what their doing might mean for you, and for the world once they’re completed.”

Geralt scoffed at the warning, taking a step forward, feeling the mud sink unsettlingly beneath his boots as he moved. “Never knew you to look out for my best interests,” he growled, feeling sweat start to drip from his beard as he spoke. “What makes me think I can trust you now?”

Vilgefortz sighed, seeming almost bored with the question. “I never despised you in life, Geralt,” he said, sounding weary of having to explain himself. “I never wanted to see you fail, even after you refused to join me. I still saw you as an equal, to be admired in your accomplishments— I saw us as brothers, you and I. Two of the same, abandoned babes of sorceress mothers, each a pinnacle in our own right.” Standing from the stump at last, he picked up his head, holding it carefully at chest level, handling it as carefully as if it were a glass flower on a satin pillow. His feet seemed solidly planted, Geralt noticed – weightless, almost featherlight, as if he were floating above the mud – but it took a moment longer for the witcher to realize it was not Vilgefortz who was floating, but himself who was starting to sink.

Geralt could feel the warm sludge bubbling around his ankles, curdling around his legs as it climbed greedily up his boots; all around him, he could see the spoons sinking in as well, their solid forms melting into pulp in the sweltering heat. “We could have moved mountains, had we but worked together,” Vilgefortz told him, his voice disturbingly calm as he watched the witcher pulled deeper into the mud. “Between us, we could have changed the world. But O’Dimm had other plans for me, and I was not strong enough in life to spite them.” Letting out a panicked bark of breath, Geralt yanked at his boots, trying his hardest to free them, but the muck only pulled back harder, holding him tight with a wet sucking sound. He could feel the mud coagulating around his knees, congealing like blood as it pulled him further downward, until the warm, wet dirt sucked against his hips, trapping him waist-deep in quicksand that only seemed to be growing quicker.

Vilgefortz watched as the witcher struggled, his dark eyes cold, seeming neither pleased nor upset, before he furrowed his brow again, letting out a soft scoff as his lip curled in another bitter sneer. “What can O’Dimm possibly do to me now for undermining his plans?” he insisted, still seeming intent on explaining himself so long as Geralt was still able to hear him. “Kill me again? Not likely. I’ve nothing to fear from his retribution now.” Geralt gasped for breath, clawing desperately for something to hold onto; he could feel sweat pouring down his face and into his open mouth, his lungs burning with every vain attempt to fill them. His armour was plastered so heavily to his body with sweat he could swear it was melting into his skin, and he thrust out a hand towards Vilgefortz, grabbing one of his expensive boots as a last, desperate anchor.

Vilgefortz frowned as the witcher grabbed him, before taking a step back, shaking his sweaty hand loose, watching with barely an expression as Geralt was sucked deeper into the mud with nothing to hold onto. He was going to die here, Geralt realized; it had been a miracle he had not frozen to death the time before, but now he was sure he would drown in this mud before he had a chance to wake up in the real world. “Think on it, witcher,” Vilgefortz told him, lifting his head to place it squarely on its bloody stump; the witcher grimaced at the sound of flesh meeting wet flesh, the skin-crawling clicking of bones knitting in ways only magic could achieve. Geralt spit wet mud from his mouth, choking and gurgling as it pooled at the back of his throat, before his vision began to slowly darken around him as the muddy grave closed over the canopied sky.

“Time is running short to decide,” he heard Vilgefortz’s spiteful voice clearly through the mud, the sound as if the sorcerer were standing beside him, speaking directly into his ear. “Help is not something you can afford to take for granted… mine, or anyone else’s. And it may yet come from some unexpected places. Godspeed, Geralt… and good luck.”

* * *

Geralt opened his eyes with a gasp, clutching the covers at his sides as he gulped for air, twisting so tightly into the linen of his bedsheets he could feel the threads nearly break with the strain. He could feel himself sweating, sickly and wet, but the air was much cooler here than in the forest, and he paused, taking a moment to look around, realizing he was blessedly back in his own bed. His heart still raced as he panted, doing his best to catch his elusive breath, and he stared at the ceiling, blinking haze from his eyes as he tried to remember how he had gotten here. He had been out with Dandelion, last he remembered, but everything after that had been reduced to a blur; he remembered a flash of green, the wicked smile of Gaunter O’Dimm, but after that, only darkness filled his memory.

“I _told_ Shani you would be fine,” he heard Yennefer’s voice from beside him, and he turned to look, only to find his senses filled with the smell of lilac and gooseberry. Yennefer sat on the edge of the bed, watching her husband as he slept, and she smiled softly as he stared up at her, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from his golden eyes. “You refuse to die,” she told him, teasingly. “Despite clear attempts to try.”

“How long was I out for?” Geralt asked, his voice rasping in his painfully dry throat. The dream had been nothing but an illusion, he realized, but it seemed his thirst was quite real, and he glanced expectantly towards the nightstand, hoping Yennefer had thought to bring him a cup of water.

Yennefer seemed to realize what he wanted, and she turned, picking up the cup from the nightstand, before bringing it over to her husband’s lips, sliding a gentle hand behind his head as she tipped the cool liquid into his mouth. “About a day,” she told him, careful not to give him too much water at one time. “Shani says you should stay here for at least another day to allow for a full detox. After that, she says she can focus on making sure your leg heals properly. It’s lucky you’re naturally resistant to infection, or you may very well have gotten tetanus from an injury like that.”

Geralt coughed as the cool water tickled his throat, before clearing it and looking up at Yennefer again, warily. “What… happened?” he asked, his voice still hoarse. “How… did I get here?”

“You truly don’t remember?” Yennefer asked, her brow furrowing as she rested the cup in her lap.

Geralt shook his head. “No,” he answered, honestly. “Should I?”

Yennefer paused, thinking a moment, before she finally let out a soft sigh, arching her sculpted brows as she set the cup aside on the nightstand again. “I don’t really know,” she answered, sounding a bit disappointed to admit it. “I’m not really sure how it happened, myself. Only that you went out drinking with Dandelion, and when you came home, you were dangerously toxified—high as all hell, hallucinating, and covered in blood. Your own blood, but… still.” She fell silent, her lips pursing in a distressed line, as if she had managed to dismiss the image from her mind until just now. “You scared poor Lucja half to death,” she added after a moment, forcing herself to continue. “When you’re well again, you need to apologize to her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she quit, after what she’s seen.”

“Guess I really scared her,” Geralt acknowledged, his brow furrowing at the news. “Don’t remember that at all.”

“I didn’t expect you would,” Yennefer answered, frankly. “You were ranting and raving like a madman when you got home. Going on about darkness and shadows, something about… creatures coming out of the walls.” She made a face at the memory, her pretty nose creasing, as if she had tasted something unexpectedly sour. “I only caught the tail end of it,” she admitted, letting out an anxious huff. “But you frightened Shani something dreadful. She said she suspected you’d been poisoned somehow. I’m not sure how, considering your resilience to it… and I find it hard to believe you could have been poisoned accidentally, seeing as I’ve watched you drink yourself into a stupor on multiple occasions with no apparent issue.”

Geralt frowned at the comment, knowing well Yennefer’s distaste for his recreational drinking; he had seen her refined nose wrinkle too many times, her pink lips curling at the smell of vodka on his breath. She hated how impressionable he became to his friends’ suggestions, how freely he shared intimate details of their life with whatever trusted soul might listen – but most of all, she hated his inability to open up to her unless he was numb with alcohol first. It was a trait he shared with Eskel and Lambert, though he doubted that made it any more tolerable to the sorceress; it was a terrible habit, but one he had taken to blaming entirely on his witcher mutations. That was not entirely true, of course, but the reality of it was a bit harder to swallow – that it was much easier to overlook his psychological shortcomings if he simply refused to address them.

“I don’t actually know if witchers _can_ get alcohol poisoning,” Yennefer admitted, drawing Geralt quickly back to the present.

“We can,” Geralt answered. “Just takes more than most. Wasn’t alcohol poisoning, though.” He paused, wondering if Yennefer had truly been left in the dark on the situation, or if she knew more than she was letting on, and was simply giving him enough rope to hang himself with. “…Dandelion didn’t tell you what happened?” he asked, feeling cautiously for an answer.

Yennefer shook her head, taking a moment to smooth her pants across her thighs. “No,” she said. “I suppose he thinks he’s protecting you by not telling me. He only told Shani because she needed to know in order to treat you effectively. Otherwise I don’t think he would have told anyone. He’s painfully loyal to you, you know.” She paused at the thought, staring down at her boots, before she took in a deep breath, looking up at her husband again. “You were talking in your sleep again,” she told him, thoughtfully. “Something about… Vilgefortz. I figured it was just delirium. Nightmares, perhaps, made more vivid by… whatever was in your system.” She took another moment to think, as if hoping to find a better explanation for the subject of his dreams, before she finally looked away again, her brow furrowing as she stared at a spot on the floor.

“Dandelion told me why she was here,” she said, the sudden change of subject taking Geralt by surprise.

“Who?” he asked, frowning at the lead-in.

“The sorceress,” Yennefer answered. “Thea, or whatever her name was.” She paused, her gaze fixed on the hardwood floor, before she pursed her lips, taking another deep breath to continue. “He said she’d come to hurt Shani’s baby, but he wouldn’t tell me why,” she added, her voice growing strange. “He said that explanation was best left to you, and to wait for you to wake to hear it.” She paused again, still staring at the floor, before she finally lifted her gaze to her husband’s face. “You must have really gotten yourself into trouble for not even Dandelion to want to relay the tale,” she told him. “What did you do, Geralt? What did you do to put Shani and her child in danger?”

“Don’t… know,” Geralt answered, regretting the words as soon as he said them. It was not untrue – he knew what he had done, in theory, but the thought of explaining it to Yennefer had left his mind all but blank.

Yennefer frowned at the answer, looking as frustrated as he knew she would. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” she insisted. “Was it something you did last night?”

Geralt shook his head. “No,” he answered, quickly. “Happened before that. Couple weeks ago. Can’t… quite figure out exactly what I did, though. Just know Shani’s in trouble now. Because of me.”

Yennefer took a moment to contemplate, her pretty brow furrowing as she considered the timeline, before her plush lips thinned, her eyes growing cold as she looked down at her husband again, understanding. “It had something to do with Ciri’s contract, then,” she observed, her voice making it clear she already knew the answer.

Geralt nodded, realizing there was no point in lying anymore. “Yeah,” he said. “Not Ciri’s fault, though. Had no idea what it was. Just thought it sounded interesting, wanted me to look into it.” He faltered, watching Yennefer’s expression, knowing she had not blamed Ciri from the start; if anything, her anger would be directed at him, but he knew honesty was his only option now if he wanted her help in the matter. “Contract was for some… being, in a forest,” he continued, not waiting for Yennefer to prompt him. “Been hanging around, talking with some villagers… one got spooked, sensed something unnatural. Asked for a witcher to investigate, see if they could figure out what the creature really was.” He paused at the thought, balling his bedsheets subconsciously in his fists as he took a breath to continue.

“Turns out, he was right,” he went on, his brow furrowing. “Being was definitely something unnatural. Something I’d dealt with before, and hoped to never deal with again.” Yennefer’s expression did not move as he said this, her violet eyes fixed intensely on his face, and he thinned his lips, steeling himself to go on, knowing the next part would be the hardest to admit. “Tried to confront it, get it to go away, but it… he… wouldn’t,” he said, trying not to falter over his words. “Wanted me to leave him in peace. Refused, so he offered me a deal instead. Said… he’d grant magic-users the ability to have children if I walked away, just left him be. Was surprised by the offer, but… didn’t accept. Know better than to make deals with demons.”

He looked up quickly at this, searching his wife’s face, as if expecting to see some reaction, some look of surprise – but the sorceress remained remarkably impassive, hardly bothering to even blink as he took another breath to continue. “Told him I wouldn’t do it,” he insisted. “So… put a curse on me instead. Said he’d still let magic-users have kids, but… only if Shani’s kid were to die first. Before it was born.” He stopped, his teeth clenching, waiting in bated silence for Yennefer to say something – anything. To scold him, insult him, slap him across his foolish face, anything to break the quiet and give some reaction to his story. But once again, he was met with nothing, and he felt his gut twist with guilt, his heart beating faster in his chest.

“Didn’t know what to do, Yen,” he admitted, desperate to fill the silent void. “I panicked. Then, he said he’d let me undo the curse if I did three tasks for him.”

“You agreed, of course,” Yennefer returned, her first spoken words since the start of his tale.

“Had to,” Geralt answered. “Couldn’t let him hurt Shani. But he’d only tell me the first two. Said he’d reveal the third once those were completed.” Yennefer’s painted brows arched at this, incredulous that her husband had agreed to such deceitful terms, but he only shook his head, knowing there was no point in lamenting a decision already made. “Had no other choice,” he insisted, firmly. “Dunno why he was able to do it at all. Still, sorceress showing up here proves it’s real. Gotta do the tasks now. Got no other choice.”

Yennefer paused at this, her violet eyes straying to a spot on the bed as she thought, before she let out a long sigh, folding her slender arms across her lap to hold each elbow in her opposite palm. “I suppose you didn’t tell me before now because you were afraid of how I would react,” she guessed.

“Tried to tell you,” Geralt answered, noting the unusual distance in her voice. “After Vizima. Too delirious to make much sense at the time, though. Should’ve tried again, harder. Just thought, when nobody believed me… might’ve dreamed the whole thing up.” He faltered as he said this, staring up at his wife, wondering what was going on in her head that she refused to tell – her gaze had fallen as he spoke, and her mind seemed to be somewhere else entirely. “No excuse,” he added, shaking his head, unsure if she could even hear him anymore. “No idea what to do now. Gotta complete my tasks, but… no idea where to start. Hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t anymore. Just know I should’ve asked for help earlier. Always making the same stupid mistake, thinking I can do everything on my own.”

Yennefer was silent as he finished, staring intently down at a spot on the bed. Then, taking a deep breath, she looked up at him again, her violet eyes glassy as she pursed her lips, preparing to speak. “…So,” she concluded, slowly, as if unsure she could find the right words on her first try; the careful, quiet tenor of her voice made Geralt’s chest clench, but he kept his face set, impassive, listening. “You say all mages would be able to have children… if Shani’s baby for some reason were not to survive?”

Geralt hesitated, not sure how to respond. “Yeah,” he finally answered, solemnly. Yennefer nodded, seeming lost in thought, before she slowly turned to look away from him again, and Geralt frowned, troubled by his wife’s reaction, knowing full well the weight this carried for her. The lengths one would have to go to to fulfil this curse were too horrific, even for someone as determined as Yennefer – but the longer she refrained from making eye contact, the more he began to worry, and he found himself wondering for a moment if this might finally be the thing which drove his usually rational wife over the edge. “Yen,” he spoke up again after a moment, causing Yennefer to blink, not realizing how deep in thought she had managed to stray. “Can’t seriously be thinking about it.”

“No— No,” Yennefer said, quickly, turning to look at him again. Despite the resolve of her words, there was a strange, glassy distance in her eyes as she said it, and she blinked a few more times, clearing the last fog of thought from her mind before settling back into reality. “Of course not,” she added, now much more resolute. “I couldn’t do that to Shani. It’s not worth it, even for…”

She trailed off again, going silent once more, and Geralt could not help but feel a pang of guilt at her expression, realizing how deeply this wound had to cut for the usually eloquent sorceress to be so thoroughly lost for words. In all their years together, there had only ever been one thing Yennefer had expressed as her most intimate regret, though the time it had taken him to pry even that from her had been an era in and of itself. Her desire for children had always haunted her, the thought of what might have been, had she never studied magic; the thought of what might have been, had she never used glamour – staying misshapen, but with the healthy womb of the mortal woman she had once been.

“Would never have met you if you hadn’t studied magic,” Geralt had reminded her time and again, and Yennefer had always smiled and agreed with him, before changing the subject quickly. It had only occurred to him after a while that that might not have been the encouragement he had thought it to be; in truth, her choice to be with him, a witcher, had only truly sealed her childless fate. He could not help thinking, deep down, that had she been able to have children when first they met, she might never have even given him the time of day, knowing he could never help her to become the mother she hoped to be.

Yennefer took a deep breath as she thought, staring down at a spot on the covers, before she finally looked up at her husband again, this time with an odd, unreadable expression in her eyes. “But you say…” she began, speaking slower this time, as if trying to justify the words, even as they were leaving her. “You could have had the same thing… mages would be able to have children again… if you had just… walked away?”

Geralt paused at the question, taken aback, before his expression grew quickly solemn. “Yen…” he said, giving a thin, wary breath. “Can’t make deals with this thing. Just can’t. Dealt with him before. Know how he works.”

Yennefer nodded, her expression still faint. “Hm,” she said at last, an answer without meaning. “I suppose you know best, in that regard. I’m just… trying to wrap my head around it, is all.” She paused again, her gaze distant, her breathing slow and meticulous, as if debating whether or not to continue. “I tried so many things,” she said after a moment, now sounding almost as if she were speaking unconsciously. “Researched and experimented for so many years… and always, it came to nothing. You must understand, then, to hear that this… _thing_, has the capability to just… _undo_, all mages’ inability to bear children…” She stopped, her voice fading out again, before she thinned her lips, turning away from Geralt once more, staring instead towards the far wall of the bedroom, leaving him to sit alone in the silence of her contemplation.

He had no idea what to say to her; he had never faced a situation like this before, never had the sinking sensation that some decision he made carried such weight for Yennefer and those like her. Usually, when he spoke with his wife about these situations, she responded with some manner of straight-faced raillery, exasperated but logical in her response and quick wit, but always ready to help fix whatever he had botched with his heavy-handed solutions. This time, however, it seemed not even Yennefer had something cutting or witty to say, and Geralt found the absence of her usual barbs much more unsettling than any insult she had ever seen fit to throw his way.

Reaching across the bed to his wife, he wrapped his hand hesitantly around her much smaller one, watching as she looked down at the hand clasped over hers, making no attempt to close her fingers around his in return. “Can’t know for sure he could really do it,” Geralt told her, his voice solemn, speaking quietly, as if hoping that might help soften the blow. “Might’ve just been trying to get under our skin. Offering the thing he knows we want the most.”

Yennefer said nothing, only staring down intently at the hand still resting over hers, as if trying to read something in his gesture only she could understand. Her violet eyes were distant as she stared at his wedding-band, glinting in the wan light of the room’s candles, before she slid her hand out from under his, finally standing from the bed and smoothing her jacket distractedly.

“You did the right thing,” she told him, stiffly, not bothering to look back at him as she spoke.

“Yen…” Geralt started to say, feeling a weary sigh building in his chest, but he did not have the chance to speak before Yennefer quickly turned, looking back at him again.

“It was the right thing, Geralt,” she told him, coldly, her vivid eyes flashing in the yellow candlelight, so sharp and cutting in that moment he wondered if there might be some spell at work to make them look that way. “That’s all there is to it. Let’s not speak of this anymore.” Then, pursing her lips, she turned away from him again, folding her arms and staring intently at the far wall. She paused as she thought, seeming to be considering something, before she let out her breath again in a long, shuddering sigh, seeming to lose her indignation before his very eyes as she turned back to face him again, her expression now strange, sad and worried, all at once.

“Geralt,” she said, her voice softer now, the sudden gravity of her tone making his nerves prick with apprehension. “There’s… something I need to tell you about Shani’s baby. I—” But before she could finish, the sound of the bedroom door opening reached their ears, and she closed her mouth quickly, looking across the room to where Shani had begun to peek her head into the room. The doctor paused when she spotted Yennefer, and she opened the door a bit wider, before her hazel eyes grew bright with a smile at the sight of Geralt sitting up, awake and alert.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” Shani said, sliding carefully the rest of the way into the room. “I just wanted to check on how my patient is doing. I brought some more tonic to help with the detox.”

“Nothing important,” Yennefer returned, genially, smiling as warmly as she could at the doctor. “We were just chit-chatting about Geralt’s work. I’ll leave you two to it now. If anything changes, you know where to find me.” Then, turning to glance back at Geralt again, she gave him a fleeting look of warning, making it clear their conversation was not over yet, before turning to make her way for the bedroom door.

Shani watched as Yennefer crossed the room, stepping out of the way to give the sorceress space to leave, before she turned her attention to Geralt again, crossing to sit beside him on the bed. Shani smelled like lavender and sage, Geralt noticed, the soothing scent of warmth and healing, and he looked down at her arms, noting the fading burns where the sorceress’ magic had seared her skin. He had seen burn-marks before, but had never seen them heal so quickly or so nicely as these seemed to be doing; he figured Yennefer had likely given her something imbued with magic to assist in the healing process. Shani hummed to herself as she worked, pulling a set of vials from a pouch at her hip, before laying them out on the bedside table, shaking each one to ensure they were all well-mixed.

“You and Yennefer have something special,” she spoke up after a moment, causing Geralt to look up in surprise at the comment. “I hope I can find something similar someday. Not any day soon, of course, but… eventually.” She paused at the thought, her gaze growing pensive, before she took a deep breath, looking back down at Geralt again with a soft smile. “Maybe I’ll just do what Yen did,” she told him, lightheartedly. “Find myself someone to rescue from rash decisions until he buys me a home in the country.”

Geralt snorted at the playful jab, watching as Shani picked up one of the vials from the table, giving it another good shake before handing it over for the witcher to drink. He took it with a nod, removing the cork and lifting the vial to his lips, before making a face as the bland taste of charcoal coated his tongue and throat on the way down. “Not the tastiest,” he joked, giving a light cough as he made a second attempt to swallow. The mixture was gritty, and it took a bit to get down, but he did what he could before handing the vial back with a nod of thanks. “Live to be a thousand with you around,” he told the doctor, grinning up at her with a faint grimace. “Dunno what I’ll do with all my extra time.”

“Won’t be a lot of that if you keep eating mistletoe,” Shani answered, smirking as she took the vial back. Setting it aside on the nightstand, she paused, considering the painting above Geralt’s desk, before she leaned back against her palm on the bed, resting a thoughtful hand across her bump. “The baby hasn’t been moving much today,” she observed, causing Geralt to look up at the comment, frowning a bit. “I felt it earlier, so I know it’s alright… probably just worn out from all the excitement.” She hesitated at the thought, her soft gaze straying, her pretty brow furrowing as she sucked her pink lips, before she let out another long exhale, moving her hand across her stomach until it fell back into her lap.

“I’m probably overthinking everything,” she admitted, sounding almost exasperated with herself at the observation. “But I can’t stop thinking about that woman who came to the house. She wanted to hurt my baby, but… I didn’t even know who she was. If I’d known I’d done something so wrong, just by wanting to keep it…” She stopped, her soft voice trailing off, and Geralt felt a surge of sickening guilt, realizing that Shani assumed the sorceress’ presence at the manor had been because of her. She had no idea what he had done, only that someone wanted to hurt her for it – but he could not help wondering if telling her the truth might not only serve to frighten her more.

Shani let out another soft sigh, before looking down again to her expectant lap, staring with an unreadable expression at the telltale curve in her borrowed blouse. “I want to have this baby,” she said, her voice quiet, making Geralt’s heart ache with guilt. “But if staying here means I’d be putting you and Yennefer in danger… maybe it’d be best if I didn’t stick around.” She stopped, chewing her lip for a moment, running a pensive hand over her stomach as she thought. “I could go somewhere else for a while,” she said, looking up at Geralt again. “At least until the baby is born. I don’t want my selfish decision to be something that puts other people at risk. It’s not fair to you and Yennefer, not after you’ve been so good to me through all this.”

“Out of the question,” Geralt answered, firmly. “Can’t let you leave. Not while you’re still in danger. Yen’ll protect you here, and so will I. Wouldn’t be much of a father if I didn’t.”

Shani watched him as he spoke, considering his words, before a small, grateful smile began to curve her soft lips. “You’re a good friend, Geralt,” she told him, quietly, reaching out to take hold of his hand. Her hand was warm in his, her fingertips calloused, toughened from field work and study; it was much different from Yennefer’s soft, always-cold ones, which was comforting, in its own way. Shani laced her fingers fondly together with his, smiling down at their hands intwined over the covers, before she gave a soft sigh, her expression falling faintly as she rested her still-free hand on her stomach. “If… something does happen to me because of this,” she said, speaking slowly, her solemn voice making Geralt’s brow furrow with worry. “I… want you to try and save my baby. Please… promise me, Geralt. Her life is more important to me than mine.”

Geralt frowned at the difficult promise, turning the weight of it over in his mind, before another small detail caught his attention, and he looked up again, his expression puzzled. “…Her?” he asked, unsure if he had heard correctly.

Shani blinked, seeming surprised, her fingers twitching subconsciously around his at the question. “Oh,” she said at last, sounding a bit embarrassed, as if she had not expected to be asked about it. “That’s… just what I’ve been calling h—the baby. I know you and Yen think it’s going to be a boy, but…” She stopped, her mouth hanging open for a moment, before she closed it quickly, letting out a soft huff and turning to look down at the floor again. “It’s silly,” she said, her voice quiet, her cheeks lighting up with a soft blush. “I’ve always kind of… wanted a little girl. Wishful thinking, I know… no way to tell until it’s born, of course, but…” She faltered again, before shrugging weakly, pulling her hand away from her lap to rest it instead on the bed beside her.

“Just one of my idiosyncrasies, I guess,” she admitted, letting out another weak huff. “With everyone calling it a boy, I guess I’m… just trying to even the odds a little.” She chewed her lip for a moment, her teeth pinching the skin until it turned nearly white, before she turned to look back at Geralt again, offering him a small, apologetic smirk. “I bet you’re hoping for a boy,” she guessed. “And… truthfully, a little Geralt _would_ be mighty cute. I can’t say I’d mind having a little boy, if he ended up anything like you.”

Geralt paused for a moment, considering, before he slowly leaned back into his pillows again, nestling his head against their downy warmth as he let out a low, meditative hum. “Hm,” he grunted after a while, feeling a small smile start to curl the corners of his lips. “Actually, come to think of it… think I like ‘her’ just fine.”


	14. Blackthorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! ♡
> 
> I did a bit of art for this chapter for fun - [you can check it out here!](https://oxenfurtacademy.tumblr.com/post/634719463125778432/quick-sketch-for-fun-i-updated-my-post-bw)

The warm yellow light of midday filtered in through the bedroom window, causing Geralt to squint, wrinkling his nose as he blinked his bleary eyes against the sun. The candles in the room had been snuffed out, leaving only the faintest aroma of medicinal lavender, and he groaned as he looked over towards the edge of the bed, spotting a dark shape seated there, waiting for him to wake. Geralt took a deep breath, rubbing his wrist across his eyes as he turned to face the figure, expecting the smell of lilac and gooseberries to greet him, only to be surprised when he was met with the smell of mandrake instead, the faintest whiff of pipe-smoke and shoe-polish following behind to create a distinctively scholarly aroma.

The witcher faltered at the scent, blinking a few times in surprise, trying to focus his vision on what was in front of him – with his slitted pupils, it took him less time than most to adjust to new light levels, but it still took his brain time to catch up to everything else on first waking. The dark-clad figure sat patient and poised as he waited for Geralt to acknowledge him, and he smiled as the witcher finally looked up in surprise, seeing his visitor clearly for the first time. “You’re awake,” Regis commented, giving a soft chuckle. “I was afraid you might sleep the entire day away. I would’ve waited, regardless, but… I would’ve liked to find a book to pass the time. As fascinating as you witchers are, one can only gain so much pleasure from watching you sleep.”

Geralt blinked at the teasing, still too surprised at the sight of Regis to process much else. “Regis?” he finally asked, dumbfounded. “When… how did you get here?” Pulling himself upright against his pillows, he gave his friend a quick glance over, checking to see if anything had changed significantly since the last time he had crossed paths with the vampire – Regis seemed about the same as Geralt remembered him, down to the constant dark circles around his eyes, but he could still not help noticing that his friend seemed just a bit thinner, perhaps a bit wearier, his smile just a bit more wan. “Didn’t expect to see you,” Geralt admitted, shaking his head at the welcome sight. “Figured it’d be too dangerous to visit. Travelling out in the open like that.”

“After Dettlaff’s assault on Beauclair?” Regis asked, raising his bushy brows at the thought. “You’re not wrong. It is rather more challenging to travel these days. But your letter seemed too important to respond in any way other than in person.” He took a deep breath at the thought, stretching his long arms in front of him with a tired groan. “Besides,” he added, stifling a yawn. “It’s much faster to fly than it is to walk or ride horseback. Don’t fret about me, Geralt. I haven’t lived this long without learning a few lessons about discretion.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, not sure whether to believe him. “Thought you might just be ignoring me when you didn’t respond to my letter.”

“I thought you might believe that,” Regis returned, nodding in acknowledgement. “And I do apologize. I’ve been incredibly busy lately, with… personal matters.”

“Dettlaff?” Geralt guessed.

Regis nodded again, letting out a weary sigh. “Among other things,” he admitted, reluctantly. “He’s taken it hard, what happened with Syanna. I’ve been doing my best to console him, to help him get on his feet again, but…” He paused, holding his breath for a moment, before he thinned his lips, exhaling a long, tired breath from his nose. “Well,” he said, frankly. “Ailments of the heart are deceptively difficult to heal, compared to ailments of the mind or body. And that comes from one with significant experience in healing from ailments of both mind and body.”

Geralt frowned at the news. “Been over six months,” he said. “Made no progress at all?”

Regis looked up, his bushy brows climbing towards his hairline in surprise at the question. “How long does it take for a human to heal from a broken heart?” he asked, frankly. “Or a witcher, for that matter?” He paused, waiting for an answer, before looking away again, leaning back and lacing his long fingers over his knee. “I doubt it’s your fault you don’t understand,” he admitted, staring at the bookcase against the far wall as he thought. “You’re a short-lived species, compared to Dettlaff and I. Time flows differently when you’ve less of it to spare. I’ve seen you hop into bed with a new woman within a day of a different one breaking your heart.” Geralt faltered at the jab, but said nothing, only thinning his lips in an embarrassed line; Regis had every right to take a stab at him after his insensitive comment, he knew, but Regis did not even seem to notice his expression, or if he did, made a good show of pretending not to.

Taking a deep breath, Regis rubbed his long fingers idly together, staring down at them as if getting ready to toss away a bit of dust he had pinched from his jacket. “Unfortunately, some love leaves wounds too deep to so easily move on from,” he said after a moment, still seeming lost in thought. “Dettlaff _is_ starting to heal, but the process is… slow. As, I think, can be expected. It took me a full year to recover from my ailment, yet he cared for me in all that time. I can’t rightly fault him for taking whatever time he needs for his own rehabilitation.” He paused again, before his gaze moved upward to fix on the bookshelf once more, staring at it for a long time before he turned to look back at Geralt again, his dark eyes pensive.

“Dettlaff was, as you know, quite angry with your decision to allow Syanna to live,” he told the witcher after a moment. “Though he did eventually come around on the topic, and now claims he prefers it this way. He’d done enough damage on her behalf, he said, and killing her would ultimately have solved nothing. It would only have proven he was truly the monster she had manipulated him into becoming at her behest.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted. “Dunno if I agree, but glad he’s doing okay.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Regis sighed, his voice still oddly wistful. “Though—speaking of which, Yennefer tells me you haven’t been feeling well lately. I’ve never known you to take ill for long, so I was a bit concerned to hear that.”

“Been ‘taking ill’ a lot these days,” Geralt answered, frowning a bit at the thought. “Starting to think I might be losing my edge. Losing my skills as a witcher.”

“Nonsense,” Regis said, giving a soft huff and waving a gloved hand, as if to banish the thought. “More likely you’re simply out of practice. That happens when one takes time away from a lifestyle to which one has become accustomed.” Folding his hands in his lap again, the vampire looked down at his friend with a wry, curled grin. “I’m willing to bet that when the chips are down, you’re just as dangerous as you’ve always been,” he added, assuredly.

Geralt faltered at the observation, not quite sure how to take it, before he finally let out a gruff chuckle. “Appreciate the vote of confidence,” he said, reaching up to scratch absentmindedly at his beard. He paused as his nails brushed the neat scruff, realizing how short and clean it felt against his fingers, and he pressed a surprised hand to his cheek, rubbing it over his beard with a dumbfounded expression. His beard had been trimmed to near perfection, the scruff clipped and tamed by an expert hand, and when he reached back further, he realized that his hair had also been trimmed, the split ends and snags from weeks on the road purged and evened by a pair of master shears. “Did you… cut my hair?” he asked, looking up at the barber-surgeon with surprise.

Regis grinned, his dark eyes glinting with puckish mirth. “Yes,” he said, brightly. “I was wondering when you’d notice. I had a wager with Yennefer there was an actual man under there, if I were only brave enough to try and find him.”

Geralt nodded distractedly, running his fingers through his hair a few more times, enjoying the feel of the fresh cut. “Thanks, Regis,” he finally said, still a bit bewildered.

“Oh, no need to thank me,” Regis answered, shaking his head. “It was as much for my benefit as yours. After all, I was the one who had to witness that bird’s nest while I waited for you to wake. If not for the white hair, I might’ve mistaken you for a homeless vagabond in Yennefer’s bed.” He chuckled at the thought, reaching out to brush a small remnant of white clippings from the pillow beside Geralt’s head, before he returned his hands to his lap again, taking another deep breath as a new thought occurred to him. “Speaking of white hair,” he added, raising a greying brow at the thought. “I didn’t know you produced White Wolf at Corvo Bianco. I thought the product was made for you, but that another vineyard owned the stereoisomer. A rather older one.”

“Bought the… recipe, when I settled down here,” Geralt answered, not even bothering to try and mimic Regis’ more cultured terminology. “Figured wine production would help supplement income. Wouldn’t have to depend so much on taking monster contracts.”

“Ah, yes,” Regis agreed, his greyish lips curling again. “Clearing wine cellars of giant spiders and exterminating man-eating plants can become _such_ a monotonous exercise.” He paused, as if considering how true this might be, before he suddenly seemed to remember something, taking a sharp breath and reaching into an inside pocket of his quilted jacket. “Speaking of monster contracts,” he said, pulling a folded piece of parchment from his breast pocket. “That was quite an encounter you had, over in Beauclair. Your guess of a higher vampire was a good one… though I must admit, I’m still a bit baffled by some of the details you included.” Opening the parchment, he smoothed it out, before holding it up to the light to read, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the witcher’s scratchy handwriting to find the relevant details.

“Mirik,” Regis mused, sucking at his lip. “I’m not familiar with the name, unfortunately… but from your description, if I didn’t know better, I’d wager you encountered a mula. Which is strange, as I _do_ know better, and I know that no mula has ever passed the gate from our world into yours.” Folding the letter again, he pinched it between his long fingers, creasing it tightly, before stuffing it back in his breast pocket, patting the spot for assurance. “I can’t deny the similarities, as strange as the idea may be,” he admitted. “It has been a while since I’ve, er… _checked_, I suppose. One does tend to forget to keep track of every one of one’s species in existence on any given plane.” He paused at the thought, his grey brow furrowing, his mouth drawing into a stern line, nearly obscuring his already-thin lips.

“One should think,” he continued, slowly, as if this were not the first time he had considered it, “with someone in constant guard of the gate, that none should slip through without some alarm going up about it. But… who am I but a humble barber, tending the wounds of an old friend. I suppose I haven’t had the time nor the clout to be apprised of such things as they occur… if indeed they have occurred.”

“Not sure what you’re telling me,” Geralt admitted, frowning at the jumble of words.

Regis let out a soft sigh, giving a small shrug as he rested his palms on the bedspread again. “I’m not sure I entirely know, myself,” he admitted, turning to look at the witcher again. “Except, perhaps, that there are more things occurring than either of us is aware of. With us both in retirement and preoccupied with our own matters, which of us is expected to keep an ear to the ground?” Looking away again, the vampire hummed, staring absentmindedly at a Gwent trophy sitting atop a low bookshelf. “Life was so much simpler when all we had to worry about were a few murders,” he mused, jokingly. “Who could have guessed we’d miss those days? Now you can’t even go to the bootblack without someone looking twice at you, asking about your pallid complexion. It’s never been _easy_ to be a vampire, certainly, but it’s grown exponentially more difficult lately. Particularly for those of us just trying to live respectable lives.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, smirking, hoping to chip through a bit of his friend’s dour disposition. “If I ever meet a respectable vampire, I’ll be sure to ask him about it.”

Regis chuckled at the retort, a small grin curling the corners of his lips again. “You’re an ass, but I like that about you,” he told the witcher. Then, thinking a moment, he paused, before adding, “Though you do make an interesting point, whether you meant to or not. Mula are higher vampires, like bruxa—they’re rare, but they’re social creatures. They’re seldom found in solitude. Where there’s one, there’s usually more nearby.” Raising his brows again, he tilted his head, his long fingernails digging thoughtfully into the material of the comforter. “Have you seen any other higher vampires around?” he asked, turning to look down at Geralt again. “They might not have been in the exact same area, but it’s unusual to find one wandering alone.”

Geralt paused, thinking back to the fight, before he finally shook his head, unable to remember anything else. If there had been other vampires in the area, they had not revealed themselves to him at the time— though he was sure if there was another one mulling around, he would have been delivered a contract to inform him of it. Realizing something then, he paused, before looking up at Regis again, his expression mixed. “Not in the same area,” he said, speaking slowly. “Not even sure if it’s a vampire. But…” He hesitated again, his brow furrowing deeper, before his lips thinned into a pensive frown. “Higher vampires are born higher vampires… right?” he asked, causing Regis to raise a brow at the strange question. “So it’s possible for a higher vampire to be… a kid? Or… look like a kid?”

Regis blinked, seeming surprised. “Well… yes,” he finally said, sounding almost wary to share this information. “Higher vampires _are_ born, for the most part, though there have also been instances of thralls being given the Gift by another. The Queen of the Night – I believe you know her – she had the capability to gift our… _condition_, onto those who so chose it.” He paused, his expression cautious, watching Geralt with dark, intuitive eyes, as if waiting to see whether the witcher remembered that Regis had once been a lover to the famous vampiress. Geralt said nothing, only blinking slowly as he waited for Regis to answer his question, and Regis let out a soft sigh at the lack of reaction, sliding his thumb pensively along the underside of his bandolier strap.

“That was her special talent,” he added after another moment, returning to his original train of thought. “But apart from her and those she turned, I suppose the answer is… yes. Higher vampires are primarily born into our condition, so we do exist as children, at one point in our lives.”

“Took the scenic route to that answer,” Geralt commented, dryly.

“We each speak in our own way,” Regis returned, sounding a bit affronted, though whether it was in jest or not was difficult to tell. “Not all of us have quite mastered the minimalism of your Palaeolithic proto-speech.” He paused again, staring down at Geralt, before a small, wry smirk began to lift the corners of his pallid lips. “Regardless,” he continued, before Geralt could respond. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is—yes, there _are_ such things as child vampires, though they’re very rarely seen. Most are kept hidden away out of fear that our enemies might seek to hurt us by harming our young ones.” He faltered again, before his frown returned, seeming once more wary, now that the question had been answered.

“…Why?” he asked. “Do you believe you may have encountered a child vampire?”

“Maybe,” Geralt answered, still not entirely sure what to think. “There’s this… girl. Keeps showing up in weird places. Always seems to be an omen of trouble. Keeps telling me about how fast she is, which… I guess could be a vampire thing.”

“It could be,” Regis agreed, nodding along with the description. “Vampires _are_ known for our strength and speed. But let me ask, have you ever seen your child vampire change shape?”

“No,” Geralt answered, shaking his head. “Damn good at disappearing, though.”

Regis frowned, tapping a thoughtful finger against his chin. “Alright,” he conceded after a moment. “Well, does your child vampire have a reflection, or does she cast a shadow in the sunlight?”

“Dunno about a reflection,” Geralt admitted. “Never seen her look in a mirror. Pretty sure I’ve seen her cast a shadow, though. Couple of times, here at the house.”

“Well, there you have it, then,” Regis returned, simply, holding out a hand with a satisfied nod. “Higher vampires don’t cast shadows, so your little friend is most likely not a higher vampire.”

“But there are other things,” Geralt pressed, leaning forward on his elbows on the bed, still troubled. “Doesn’t set off my medallion when I touch her. And she can walk around in broad daylight. Both signs of a higher vampire.”

“Or a human child,” Regis returned, grinning at the obvious answer, and Geralt felt a flush of embarrassment at the realization that the vampire was right. Reaching out a hand, Regis rested it softly against the witcher’s shoulder, patting it a few times reassuringly as he smiled across at his friend. “You’re far overthinking this, Geralt,” he told him, shaking his head with a fond chuckle. “Nothing about this girl sounds remotely supernatural. It sounds as though you’ve simply got yourself an enthusiastic little pest.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, making a face. “Great. Just what I need.”

“I thought you’d be happy to hear it,” Regis answered, leaning back to rest his palms against the bedspread again. “One less mystery, one less potential monster.”

“One more kid,” Geralt returned, deadpan.

Regis chuckled warmly at the dour response. “Always the pessimist, Geralt,” he said, fondly. Then, pausing again, he reached up, pressing a thoughtful finger to his lips. “Though… speaking of children,” he added, causing Geralt to look up, wary of the topic. “I noticed you have Dandelion staying here at Corvo Bianco. As well as that lovely doctoral student – Shani, I believe her name is. Beautiful girl, so bright and friendly. Absolutely glowing in her pregnancy.”

Geralt felt his stomach sink at the mention of Shani, and he frowned, trying to figure out how Regis had known about her pregnancy so quickly. “How…” he started to ask, before closing his mouth again, realizing it was pointless to try and hide these things. Regis had a sixth sense about pregnancy, it seemed, as he had been the first to realize Milva was pregnant as well when she had travelled with their party all those years ago. He was observant, as well as being a physician and a vampire, all of which gave him added capabilities to pick up on such things – especially compared to clueless Geralt, who had had to ask his own daughter about the correlation between pregnancy and urination.

“How’d you know?” Geralt finally asked, realizing there was no harm in simply being curious. “Does she smell different? Some hormone she’s giving off?”

“She’s showing,” Regis answered, simply, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “She’s five months along, Geralt. Not only that, but our friend Dandelion was quite excited to tell me all about it.” Geralt clenched his jaw at the mention of Dandelion, making a note to give the bard a piece of his mind later – it was not that he did not trust Regis to know, but he did not like the idea of Dandelion sharing Shani’s condition with every guest to come through Corvo Bianco’s door. “He says it’s yours,” Regis added, causing Geralt to look up again, distracted by his own thoughts. “I wasn’t sure how to take that, knowing what I know of witchers and your… limitations. Though I suppose if vampires can have children, there’s no reason witchers shouldn’t be able to as well.”

“Not sure I like the comparison,” Geralt admitted, his brow furrowing at the thought.

Regis grinned, straightening in his seat on the bed. “I meant nothing by it,” he assured the witcher. “Only that our sperm is technically dead, yet our rate of successful impregnation is exponentially higher than most witchers. Present company excluded.”

“You’ve never impregnated a woman in your life,” Geralt told him, narrowing his eyes at the barber.

“That you know of,” Regis returned, quickly, raising his expressive brows again. “You don’t know everything about my past, Geralt. We’ve only known each other for a very short sliver of time. I’m nearly four hundred and fifty years old, yet I’ve known you for barely a decade.”

Geralt faltered at the explanation, realizing with a start that the vampire was right. “Huh,” he finally said. “Got any kids, Regis?”

Regis only shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he answered, honestly. “I did have a rather wild streak, at one point in my past. But that part of my life is over now, and I’ve no inclination to bring more of my unfortunate genetics into this world.” He paused at the thought, taking a deep breath, his dark eyes straying towards the bookcase as he pondered. “At this point… I think I’d rather settle down with someone who can fulfil me emotionally,” he said, speaking quietly this time, more to himself than the witcher, making Geralt wonder if he had meant to say the last bit out loud at all. Geralt faltered at the admission, debating whether or not to hazard a guess, curious but not wanting to hurt his friend’s feelings in case he had read the situation all wrong. He was terrible at reading subtle signs of emotion – Yennefer and Dandelion had teased him on many an occasion about it – but with what he knew of Regis, he felt he had at least a decent lead on where this might be going.

“Like Dettlaff?” Geralt asked, the words awkward even as he said them, and he immediately found himself wishing he had kept his guess to himself.

Regis paused at the question, seeming surprised, his angled face puzzling silently for a moment, before he pressed the pads of his index fingers together, his brow furrowing as he pondered for an answer. “Dettlaff is… complex,” he said after a while, his response slow, as if trying to soften the blow. “He has love to give – as we’ve both seen, quite explosively – but he feels things more intensely than most. Betrayal… is a terrible feeling, Geralt, and Dettlaff… he trusts with a passion most don’t understand. He needs to feel capable of receiving love again without fear that it will end as it did with Syanna.” He paused at the thought, his thin lips drawing into a grim line as he stared at the floor, his greying brows knitting into a solemn expression, as grave as Geralt had ever seen it, even in their days on the road.

“As for me, well… I am no fool,” the vampire continued after a moment, his voice weighed down with understanding. “I hold no reservations that whatever love he’ll seek once his wounds are healed will be one I can provide. He and I, we’re… tired, Geralt. Very tired. And I…” He stopped again, staring down at the floor, before he took a deep breath, his shoulders squaring. “Well,” he admitted, quietly. “I am a coward. A coward too content to surrender his shot at happiness if it means not losing a friend.”

Geralt frowned at the answer, taken aback by Regis’ morbid delicacy on the matter – he had always been a man of subtlety, for as long as Geralt had known him, but he had still never known the vampire to shy away from a risk worth taking. “Never said whether he likes… anything other than women?” Geralt asked, treading as carefully as he knew how. He was not unfamiliar with the subject, having discussed with Ciri her own attractions from time to time, but he still never knew how comfortable others were to talk about it, especially when being brought up for the first time in their friendship.

Regis shrugged, seeming less concerned with the topic than Geralt might have guessed. “It’s never come up,” he answered, simply. “I only know of Syanna, and I’ve never asked otherwise. Vampires are usually very social, but with Dettlaff… well, he’s quite guarded, as you know. It’s difficult for him to make friends, let alone show the vulnerability to fall in love. And I have no intention of hurting him further by asking about it before he’s ready.” He paused at the thought, staring down at his hands in his lap for another silent moment longer, before he finally looked up again, moving both hands to his sides as he looked back towards Geralt in the bed once more.

“But! That’s neither here nor there,” Regis said, sounding once again chipper, trying to push the conversation forward, though Geralt could still hear the obvious melancholy in his voice he was trying hard to hide. “I heard you’re dealing with something of your own, something of a rather more… supernatural nature. I wasn’t able to get the full story from Yennefer, but I got the impression she was a bit unsettled by it. Which of course only piqued my interest more, as I don’t think I’ve ever seen her unsettled by _anything_.”

“Not since the Hunt,” Geralt agreed, smirking at the mental image of Yennefer beading up with worry. “Situation’s a bit outside her expertise this time, though. Mine too. Still not entirely sure what I got myself into.” Leaning back into his pillows again, he watched as Regis raised his brows, folding his hands patiently in his lap as he waited for the witcher to continue. “Long story short… got mixed up with a demon,” Geralt explained, figuring there was no point in telling the whole story over again. “Wound up getting swept up in a deal I didn’t agree to. Not sure how he did it, but… either way, it’s done. Put a curse on Shani, then gave me three tasks to complete to undo it.”

“A deal with a demon?” Regis repeated, his brows pinching together worriedly at the thought. “Your misadventures never cease to amaze me, Geralt. And what were the tasks he asked of you?”

Geralt frowned, clearing his throat as he tried to recall the riddles O’Dimm had given him. “First task is getting Vesemir’s amulet back,” he finally answered. “Second task is killing a Wolf School witcher.”

Regis made a face at the news, his grey brow furrowing as he ran his tongue along the inside of his sharpened teeth. “That seems like quite an escalation,” he observed after a moment. “Though I can’t see how either task could benefit a demon. Killing a Wolf School witcher, perhaps—”

“Killing or creating,” Geralt corrected himself, reaching up to scratch absentmindedly at his beard again. “Task was to even the number. Meaning either kill one, or put someone new through the Trials. Either way, can’t see any reason the tasks would benefit him.”

Regis hummed at the thought, his greyish lips pursing as he considered the implications of the tasks. “And what about the third?” he asked, turning his dark eyes down to Geralt again.

Geralt shrugged. “Dunno,” he answered, honestly. “Hasn’t given me that one yet. Probably some other difficult task, though. Rebuild Kaer Morhen with my bare hands, or something.”

“Perhaps,” Regis mused, nodding slowly, seeming less entertained by the possibility. He paused again, seeming lost in thought, before he took a deep breath, resting his hands against his knees. “Sadly, I can’t think of any significance to these tasks off the top of my head,” he admitted. “However, I can certainly ask around to a few acquaintances and see if I can’t get more insight on the matter. Vampires and demons are not generally known to show interest in one another’s goings-on, unfortunately, but when you’ve nothing but time, you do sometimes tend to fill it with unusual fields of interest.”

Furrowing his brow, Regis tilted his head, considering who he might possibly ask, sucking his thin lip until the edge of one sharp tooth peeked over the paling skin. Geralt could not help a small smirk at the sight of his friend so deep in thought; vampires were terrifying creatures, of course, and Regis no less than any other, but the softness Geralt had come to associate with him made his vampiric aspects almost endearing, in a way. Regis did not seem to notice his expression, only humming as he let out a long, pensive breath, staring intently for another moment at the bookcase in the corner before he turned to look back at Geralt again.

“It’s possible Orianna might know more on the matter,” he suggested, thoughtfully, causing Geralt’s brows to lift at the idea. “She tends to mingle with the elite of Beauclair… and if anything is universally true of the elite, it’s that they like to invest their ample free time in fashionably bizarre interests.”

“Never known goëtia to be fashionable,” Geralt admitted, only half-joking. For as long as he had been aware of the practice, it had been regarded as something dark and shameful, but he supposed priorities were different for those too detached to fear normal things like poverty and starvation.

Regis shrugged. “Nor have I,” he admitted. “Regardless, I can ask Orianna if she knows anything about it. Perhaps someone in one of her circles might know why a demon would show interest in witcher matters. Though again, I doubt it will come to much… goëtia is not as avant-garde as it once was, back when the Brotherhood of Sorcerers was still around. They’ve likely moved on to more chic interests by now.”

“Appreciate it,” Geralt answered, unable to help wondering what else such circles might consider ‘chic’. Any group that dabbled recreationally in goëtia was not one he trusted to pursue other interests, but he realized he did not have time to consider that right now, when there were more pressing matters to attend to.

Regis nodded back, thoughtful, before a small, wry smirk began to curl the corners of his thin lips again. “In the meantime, you should probably avoid following strangers into dark alleys and warehouses,” he suggested, sounding amused by the advice. “You never know where another vampire may be lurking. Perhaps even in your own home, if you don’t pay careful attention.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, smirking back. “That one’s my fault. Invited him in.”

A knock at the bedroom door interrupted their lighthearted back and forth, and they both looked up in interest as the door cracked open, allowing a familiar head to peer around the corner. Dandelion beamed as he noticed Geralt awake and sitting up, before he pushed the door the rest of the way open, sliding inside with a cheerful flourish. “You’re awake!” he said, his pearly smile wide. “I heard voices, so I thought as much. Still, I figured I should check in, just in case Regis was in here talking to himself.”

“I do that a lot, do I?” Regis joked, raising a sceptical brow at the bard.

Dandelion judiciously ignored the question, fixing his cravat before continuing. “Yennefer is waiting in the front-room,” he said, looking up at Geralt again as he spoke. “Despite my best efforts to soothe her with music, she’s still worried sick about you… Melitele knows why. You always pull through from these things, I told her, but—she still insists on worrying about you, for whatever reason.”

“Thanks, Dandelion,” Geralt grinned, holding out a hand for Regis to help him out of bed. The vampire was quick to stand, taking the witcher’s hand and securing his other hand under Geralt’s shoulder, before offering a counterweight to lift him out of bed and onto his weary feet. Geralt huffed as he stood for the first time in two days, reaching down to feel over the new scar on his thigh, before he headed for the clothing-trunk at the end of the bed, pulling on a pair of trousers and a clean shirt. “Let’s go,” he said, yanking on a pair of boots, before indicating for Dandelion to lead the way, glancing once behind him to make sure Regis was following as they made their way out into the front-room.

The front-room was nearly unrecognizable, stripped bare of its furniture and decorations; the only things that remained from the way he remembered them were the fireplace and the rug. The walls were discoloured with streaks of oil paint, some half-covered with a fresh coat of white, and the rug was stained through with a ring of dried blood, the edges nearly black with congealed crust. Two attendants were scrubbing the rug on hands and knees, soaking it down to the wood floor in their efforts, but the stain seemed too stubborn to be scoured away, and Geralt frowned at the growing pile of blood-stained rags in a corner of the room.

The rug squished unpleasantly beneath his boot as he stepped onto it, a ring of water rising up from the threads to surround his heel, and he quickly retreated, letting out a low hum as he looked around for some sign of Yennefer. “Oh good, you’re awake,” her voice was quick to reach him, and Geralt turned towards the sound, watching as the sorceress crossed the barren room towards him, seeming unfazed by the disrupted décor, as if she had grown used to it in his absence. He knew that was likely a front for the sake of their guests – Yennefer hated a work in progress, and even moreso a house in disarray – and he watched her expression, hoping to catch some glimmer of her true thoughts, but found he could detect nothing.

Yennefer smiled as she reached their group, the gesture thin, forced for polite company, before she rested her hands on her hips, turning to look over at her husband with the same stiff, cordial expression. “I wanted to wake you, but Regis insisted I let you sleep,” she told him, frankly. “He’s a great deal softer than I am, in that regard. But he’s also our guest, so I let him do as he wished.”

“What happened to the furniture?” Geralt asked, gesturing vaguely towards the empty front-room.

Yennefer turned, glancing back, as if noticing the emptiness for the first time, before she turned to face her husband again, seeming just as unfazed as before. “The table was broken,” she answered, stiffly, as if irritated he would ask. “As was the mannequin. We had them hauled out until new ones could be brought in to replace them.” She paused, thinking a moment, glancing up to a green paint smear on the wall, before she let out a soft huff, turning her attention to the workers scrubbing the rug instead. “Since we were replacing the table, it seemed a good time to replace the chairs as well,” she added, her nonchalance more clearly forced this time. “The style of the set was very last year, anyway. It’ll be good to get a new one more in tune with today’s trends.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, only half-listening. “Where’s Shani? She doing okay?”

“Shani and her baby are fine,” Yennefer answered, seeming just as glad to leave the previous topic behind. “I checked her over, but apart from a few superficial burns and bruises, she seemed perfectly healthy. I patched her up – with her help, of course, being our resident surgeon – but there didn’t seem to be any lasting damage, thankfully.” She hummed at the thought, crossing her arms to rest each elbow in the opposite palm. “She’s in the day-room, if you’d like to check on her,” she added, tilting her head so her raven hair fell over one shoulder. “I should probably get back to helping with the rug, in the meantime… though I’m not sure even my magic will be able to fix this.”

She sighed, looking down at the stained rug again, her violet eyes tracing the grisly ring. “If all else fails, I suppose we can replace it as well,” she conceded. “Perhaps with something a bit more… durable, this time.”

Geralt grunted, unsure what she meant, but trusting Yennefer to know what was best for the house – as far as he was concerned, as long as it made her happy, he was glad to live in whatever sort of home she created. He was a simple man, with simple needs, and as long as he was allowed his trophy-room, he was more than happy to turn over creative ownership on the rest of the house to Yennefer. Turning back to Regis and Dandelion, he indicated for them to follow with him towards the day-room, taking special care to step around the wet rug as they made their way down the hall in the direction Yennefer had indicated.

Regis walked noiselessly behind the witcher, taking care not to crowd the corridor as they walked; Geralt could feel the vampire’s presence at his elbow, and he glanced back, wondering if his friend had something to say. “You have a lovely home,” Regis commented, though whether he had been meaning to say it or felt prompted by Geralt’s attention, it was difficult to tell. “Rather larger than the last time I remember being here. You’ve added onto it since moving in permanently, I assume.”

“Yeah,” Geralt answered, nodding. “Thought the house needed a bit more space, with the two of us. Place to keep our things, accommodate guests. Plus Yen kept hinting about a library and a day-room.” He frowned, before letting out another low huff, shaking his head at the memory. “Barely used the day-room since building it,” he added, sourly. “Taught me a lesson about taking hints at face value.”

Regis chuckled, amused by Geralt’s domestic follies, his smile lingering as they entered the day-room in question, moving across the sun-dappled floor to where Shani sat on one of the couches, looking lost in thought. She was barefoot, her trousers rolled up nearly to her knees, soaking her feet in a small wooden basin that smelled faintly of salt-water and rosemary, and she looked up in surprise as they approached, having clearly not expected guests. Her look of surprise soon changed to one of glee as she recognized the faces coming to greet her, however, and she began to get up, pulling her feet from the tub, only for Geralt to raise a hand, quickly stopping her.

“Don’t get up,” Geralt told her, gently. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. Just wanted to check if you’re okay. Yen says you got patched up, but… just wanted to make sure there was nothing else you needed.”

Shani paused at the question, settling back a bit, stirring her feet in the basin as she thought. “I’m fine,” she answered after a moment. “A bit sore, but that’s to be expected, I think. It’s not every day you get thrown around by magic. …Or at least, _I_ don’t. Can’t say the same for you.” She smiled at him again, teasingly, before turning her attention to the figures standing beside him. “If I’d known I would be this popular, I would’ve gotten pregnant a long time ago,” she told them, grinning. “Did you come to check up on me, too, Regis? Give me a second opinion on whether I’m dying or not?”

“I doubt death is your primary concern right now,” Regis returned, giving her back the same impish grin. “Though your aches and pains may _feel _like death, I assure you that no one has ever died from swollen ankles.” Moving to sit beside her on the couch, Regis reached out, starting to massage her tender shoulders, and Shani hummed as he worked his thumbs into her back, kneading the taut muscles until they relaxed. “A good massage will do wonders for your back,” he told her, seeming pleased with her positive reaction. “You should make someone give you one every now and again. Perhaps someone with strong hands, capable of relieving all this tension.”

Geralt frowned at the obvious lead, glancing over to Dandelion next, who only smirked back. “It’s the least you could do,” the bard put in, shrugging. “She _is _carrying your child, after all.”

“Getting reprimanded in my own house,” Geralt growled, but found he could not help but grin at the teasing. Shani asked for so little, he supposed it had never occurred to him to look for other ways he could help – it was useful, then, to have others around with more insight into what she might need than himself or Yennefer. Taking a deep breath, he folded his arms, watching as Shani leaned back gratefully into Regis’ hands, before he paused, thinking back to the conversation he had had with Yennefer the evening before.

She had seemed so worried about something – something she had said had to do with Shani’s baby – but she had not had a chance to tell him what that was before their talk was cut short by Shani’s arrival. Geralt frowned at the thought, wondering for a moment if there was something Shani was intentionally keeping from him, or if perhaps whatever had worried Yennefer was something even Shani did not know.

“We should probably get back to Yennefer,” Dandelion whispered, leaning in to Geralt’s ear, forcing his attention back to the present. “While they’re busy catching up. Gives us an opportunity to talk about the t-a-s—”

“Shani can spell, Dandelion,” Geralt hissed, turning his head to cut the bard off. Then, looking up at the two on the couch again, he held up a hand, gesturing back in the direction they had entered. “Gonna let you two finish catching up,” he announced, causing both Regis and Shani to look up at the declaration. “Dandelion and I are gonna head back. Trying to finish up the front-room before you have to leave again, Regis.”

“Take your time,” Regis answered, pleasantly, before turning his attention back to Shani again, seeming much more interested in conversing with the young doctor than in anything Geralt had to say. “Now, I’ve heard tell from a little bird that you worked alongside Milo Vanderbeck at the Battle of Brenna,” he told her, his mouth curling into an eager smile, looking every bit like a child about to learn the secret to his favourite candy. “I admit I’m rather fascinated by his work in pathomorphology, so I have to ask… did he share any of his insights with you during your time together?”

Geralt turned towards the door at the sound of medical jargon, realizing the conversation was going over his head, before waving a hand for Dandelion to follow along behind him, watching as the bard bounded happily after him into the hall. Dandelion held his hat perched smartly in place as they began in the direction of the front-room again, every so often glancing over his shoulder to make sure Regis and Shani were not following behind them. “Regis thinks the baby is going to be a girl,” he said after a moment, causing Geralt to look down in surprise at the unusual start of conversation. “I think it’s going to be a boy, myself—being half-witcher and all. I was thinking of starting a betting pool… I think Shani would find it funny, but I wasn’t sure if Yennefer would.”

“Probably think it’s in poor taste,” Geralt answered, giving a soft grunt at the thought. “Probably place a bet anyway, though. She likes to be right, poor taste or not.”

Dandelion chuckled at the thought, but quickly stifled the sound as they approached the sorceress, and Geralt cleared his throat to get her attention, causing Yennefer to turn in surprise at the sound. “That didn’t take long,” she commented, looking them over, as if to check for anything different. “Though I see you lost Regis. It’s probably for the best… I don’t know that he’ll be around to help much with the situation.”

“Gave him a short rundown anyway,” Geralt answered, resting his hands on his hips. “Think he’s trying to put Shani at ease. Make things easier for whenever we have to break the news to her.” He paused at the thought, turning to look over at the ring of dried blood on the floor, his frown deepening at the gruesome reminder before he turned back, looking up at Yennefer and Dandelion again. “Would prefer not to force her out of Corvo Bianco, if possible,” he said, his brow creasing at the thought. “Want her to be comfortable until the baby arrives. Just worried if one mage can track her down, others can, too. Last mage got _inside the house_, and nobody even blinked.”

“Nobody knew to blink,” Yennefer returned, her pretty brow furrowing at the implication. “Now that we know better, what makes you think we wouldn’t protect her? That _I_ wouldn’t protect her? It’s my home, too, after all.”

Geralt faltered, unsure how to answer for a moment. “Guess I assumed you’d be travelling with me,” he finally said, honestly. “Didn’t realize you’d be staying behind. Thought you’d be helping me with my tasks.”

“And why?” Yennefer asked, her voice cutting, causing Geralt’s jaw to clench at the tone – there was more going on here than simply sorting an agenda, he realized, but he was not equipped to deal with that right now. “Are you incapable of doing the tasks by yourself? Or is it that you think I’m incapable of protecting Shani objectively?” She pursed her lips, propping her hands formidably on her hips as she stared him down, daring him to answer. “Whatever you believe, Geralt, I am perfectly capable of putting my own interests aside for the sake of others,” she told him, bluntly. “And I believe I’d be of far more use here at home than I would playing second fiddle to what is essentially witcher’s work.”

“Didn’t say you couldn’t be objective,” Geralt told her, speaking in a low voice, unsure whether she could hear him or not. In response, Yennefer only turned her head, glancing down the hallway in the direction of the manor library.

“I’ve been doing some thinking over the last two days,” Yennefer said, moving the conversation curtly along, ignoring his attempt to placate her. “Regarding the… incident, that occurred here. I’ve gotten in contact with Triss, and I’ve informed her of all the details about it.” Geralt faltered at the mention of Triss, remembering O’Dimm’s comment about her involvement with the disturbance of two nights prior, but he said nothing, deciding that would best be left as a topic for another day. It was not a subject that could be handled right now, regardless, and especially not in front of Dandelion, and so he only furrowed his brow, looking thoughtful, allowing Yennefer to continue uninterrupted.

“Triss tells me she’s been busy in Pont Vanis, acting as the advisor to King Tankred,” Yennefer went on. “She says he’s given her quite a bit of freedom in her position, and pays her handsomely for her expertise – enough to allow for comfortable investment in her other areas of personal interest.” She paused at the thought, the stiffness of her expression faltering slightly as her brow furrowed in a look of concern. “She tells me she’s continued her work in her efforts to smuggle mages out of the North,” she went on, trying her hardest to sound impassive. “It seems sentiment towards mages in the North hasn’t improved much since Radovid’s assassination… apparently Northern lawmakers didn’t take kindly to the rumours of Redania’s king being murdered by a sorceress and her spymaster associate. As a result, the witch-hunters have taken it on themselves to double down on their efforts to brutalize magic-users.”

“Doubt it took much to convince them to do that,” Dandelion scoffed, running his fingers thoughtfully over his goatee. “Brutes and bullies, the lot of them. Always mugging around outside the Chameleon, scaring away my customers.”

“Triss says she isn’t even sure who they’re working for anymore,” Yennefer agreed, turning to look over at Dandelion, as if hoping the bard might have more insight on the matter. “Admittedly, it feels more like a personal vendetta than anything, at this point. An organization like that is a cesspit for the worst humanity has to offer… sociopaths who take pleasure solely from lording violence over others.” Letting out a heavy sigh, she crossed her arms, before looking up at Geralt again with a tired expression. “Regardless, Triss tells me she’s still in close contact with her old network from Novigrad,” she continued, wearily. “She says she can potentially offer Shani access to a number of safe-houses across the North. She says they’d be willing to offer her protection if they think she might be in danger from the witch-hunters, so we’d need to come up with a convincing story for her, or figure out another way to get them to take her in.”

“Doubt there’s much need for a story,” Geralt observed, his brow furrowing in concern at the thought. “Witch-hunters hate nonhumans. Probably be more than happy to kill a witcher-born child, if they knew about it.”

“Be that as it may,” Yennefer said, speaking quickly, though Geralt could tell his point troubled her. “I still have to figure out the details with Triss about how any of this will work, if we do decide to go with this plan. If I can figure something out with her contacts, I might be able to keep Shani safe by keeping her on the move.” She paused again, before letting out a soft huff, uncrossing one arm to rest her fingers worriedly against her pale cheek. “I could use my magic to obscure her presence from other mages’ attempts to scry her,” she suggested, sounding less than convinced of her own idea. “If nothing else, that would make it so neither of us is a sitting target while you’re off fulfilling your tasks.”

“It’s a sound plan, in theory,” Dandelion agreed, frowning as he turned it over in his head. “Except, wouldn’t smuggling her through mage safehouses put her _more_ at risk from the exact thing she’s trying to get _away_ from?”

Yennefer shrugged, seeming less concerned with the thought. “It’s possible,” she admitted. “Though I’m not sure what there is to be done about it. It’s not an ideal solution, clearly, but I can’t think of anything else at the moment.”

“I can,” Dandelion returned, quickly, raising a finger to indicate an idea forming. “What about my network? Zoltan and I have accrued quite a few useful contacts in Novigrad. Not to mention she’d be safer in the city, with the witch-hunters making mages notoriously unwelcome there.” He grinned at the thought, proud of his solution, propping a hand on his hip and waving the other in Geralt’s direction. “Plus, with Geralt’s connection to the King of Beggars and Dudu in control of Whoreson Junior’s network, we’ve got the criminal element on our side,” he added, sounding more enthused with the plan the further he got into it. “Think about it. Even the most stubborn of mages would be hard-pressed to gain access to someone being harboured by Novigrad’s kingpins.”

“True,” Yennefer sighed, turning her violet gaze patiently up to meet the bard’s. “However, as much as I appreciate your creative solution, Dandelion, I would prefer not to have a pregnant woman harboured by hardened criminals. Unfortunately, most of your network outside the criminal element is made up of vagabonds and minstrels – or, alternatively, royalty, which would only make it _more_ difficult to keep her out of the public eye, if we were to go that route.” Dandelion made a face at his idea being shot down so quickly, but he said nothing, only standing back and crossing his arms, allowing Yennefer to continue her say.

“I believe the Northern safe-houses would still be the most effective place to hide her, at the moment,” Yennefer went on, turning to look over at Geralt again. “By concealing her in a place best known to be used by mages, we’d be keeping her safe by putting her in the last place they’d think to look for her – right under their noses.”

“But what happens if a mage needs to use the safehouse while Shani’s there?” Dandelion countered, his cravat puffing out like a ruffled bird at the thought. “And—who even runs these safehouses? How do we know they’re not mages, themselves? Who’s to say she’s safe with _them_?”

“Enough,” Geralt insisted, holding out his hands, causing both Yennefer and Dandelion to look up in surprise at the command. “We’ll figure this out later, once we know more. Not getting anywhere arguing about it.”

“You’re right,” Yennefer agreed, turning to face her husband again. “So, what’s your first task, then? If we’re to get started on this, we might as well know what we’re getting into.”

“Vesemir’s amulet,” Geralt answered, deciding to forgo the exact wording of O’Dimm’s riddle. “Ciri wore it when she fought the Crones. One got away, made off with it. Need to kill that last Crone, get it back.”

“Seems simple enough,” Dandelion conceded, nodding along with the explanation. “Kill a monster, collect a prize. Seems like everyday stuff, for you.”

“Not just a monster,” Geralt countered, his frown deepening at the descriptor. “Crones are much more powerful. Old spirits, strong and revered. Sure to be a lot more involved than just going in and killing it.”

“So you think the demon’s whole point in asking for this was just to get you killed,” Yennefer observed, her tone dry. “I personally can’t see what other benefit Vesemir’s amulet would have to him. It has no value to anyone but those who knew him, and perhaps a few others. Trophy collectors and the like.”

“Or collectors of Vedyminaica,” Dandelion put in helpfully, lifting a thoughtful finger.

Geralt wrinkled his nose at the term, hating how medical it made his profession sound – it reminded him of butterflies pinned in a glass case, just one more blow to the slow decline of his dying breed. “Amulet means nothing to him,” he said after a moment, shaking his head. “Pretty sure Yen’s right. Only reason he picked it is because it’ll be hard to do.” He paused a moment, considering, before his brow furrowed deeper, his gaze growing suddenly solemn. “Or…” he added, causing Yennefer and Dandelion to look up again. “Might be another reason. Could be the Crones pose some threat to him. Once this one’s gone, they’re all gone. Forest spirit, too. With all of them dead, people of Velen are free from their influence.”

“Free to do what, exactly?” Yennefer asked, arching a curious brow.

Geralt shrugged. “Dunno,” he answered. “Figure I could write to the Pellar and ask. See if he’s got any insight. Or any thoughts about killing the last Crone.”

Yennefer made a face, before she shook her head, crossing her slender arms over her chest. “Writing a letter takes too long,” she objected. “The Pellar is difficult enough to get hold of as it is. It’d be much easier to use teleprojection to contact him. There’s not much he can do to avoid us if we simply show up in his house.” Geralt faltered at the idea of surprising the Pellar with an unannounced magical appearance, but he realized quickly that Yennefer was right – even when he had gone to the hut in person while travelling through Velen, it had been nearly impossible to get the old man to answer any of his questions. Any letter they sent would likely get lost among the soothsayer’s oddments long before it was answered, and Geralt let out a huff, folding his arms as he watched Yennefer wave a hand in the direction of the manor library.

“We can use my megascope, in my study,” Yennefer suggested, not waiting for Geralt to agree with her plan. “The sooner we get it out of the way, the better. And, Dandelion—?” Turning again, she faced the bard, who looked up in interest at having been addressed. “Would you mind checking in on Shani and Regis?” she asked, offering him a genial smile, one Geralt recognized as being dangerous to deny. “We won’t be long, but we don’t want our guests to think we’ve abandoned them in the meantime.”

Dandelion paused, before returning the smile, clearly recognizing the latent threat as well as the witcher. “Sure,” he answered, his tone forcibly bright. “Take your time. I know how important this is. I figure you two could use a moment alone anyway, after the last few days.” Then, turning, the bard gave one last knowing glance to Geralt, before spinning on his heel and starting down the hall in the direction of the day-room.

Geralt watched as Dandelion disappeared, almost missing as Yennefer turned in the opposite direction, starting to walk down the hall towards the manor library, not bothering to check if her husband was following behind. “If you do get Vesemir’s amulet back, perhaps you can give it back to Ciri,” Yennefer suggested, her voice carrying down the corridor as Geralt walked quickly to catch up. “It’ll be much better than that Cat amulet she still has. That thing gives me the creeps.” Pausing at the door to the library, the sorceress allowed a faint shudder to run through her as she reached for the handle. “I’m not sure why she insists on wearing it,” she added, shaking her head at the thought. “I’ve long put the Griffin medallion she gave me in a drawer somewhere. I don’t even like _looking_ at it.”

“Didn’t know you kept it,” Geralt admitted, waiting for his wife to open the door.

Yennefer turned at the comment, looking back at her husband with a frown. “Of course I kept it,” she said, sounding affronted he would think otherwise. “It was a gift from Ciri, albeit a rather grisly one. I wouldn’t dispose of it for the world.” Then, opening the library door, she made her way inside, heading swiftly for the megascope in the corner, dusting it off with a titter as she tweaked and adjusted its many moving parts. Geralt looked on in interest as she worked, tucking his hands behind his back to avoid getting in the way, unable to help wondering, as he watched, how Shani had managed to figure out such a complex apparatus. “Stand over here with me,” Yennefer prompted after a moment, and Geralt did as he was told, crossing to stand beside her in front of the circular glass.

He watched as Yennefer closed her eyes, starting to recite a string of phrases in Elder speech, the words causing the crystals in the stands to glow and hum before an amorphous window began to take shape in the middle of the circle. The projection warped and stretched, shimmering for a moment like polished glass, before it finally began to form shadows and shapes, gradually sharpening into a vision of the inside of the Pellar’s hut. The hut was just as Geralt remembered it, though it had been a while since he had last set foot inside; cured meats and apple-sized cloves of garlic still hung in clusters from the structural beams, with a circle of nearly-melted candles flickering warmly on the low stone stove in the middle of the room. The house was tiny, barely large enough for one man to fit a bed and table, but the Pellar had managed to utilize the space well enough to leave a clearing for his rituals and other tasks.

The Pellar himself stood in a corner of the room as their projection began to take shape, and he turned around with only a sleepy look of interest as they materialized, blinking slowly as he waited for the spell to finish. He folded his hands behind his back as he watched them, looking first at Geralt, and then at Yennefer, before his bleary gaze returned to Geralt, offering him a tight-lipped, toothless smile.

“The Pellar has been expecting your call, White Wolf,” the soothsayer informed him, matter-of-factly. He sounded genial, glad for the familiar company, but Geralt could not help noting how tired the old man looked. He supposed that was nothing new for the Pellar, who always looked a bit worse for wear, with his toothless grin, his necklace of chicken-feet, and his rumpled, wax-stained robes; still, there was something about him now that seemed just a bit wearier, a bit more run-down, and Geralt could not help wondering if something had happened since he had last visited the oracle in person.

“Hm,” Geralt answered, dismissing the thought. “Been busy with other things. Was wondering if you could give me some information on the last Crone.”

The Pellar’s bushy eyebrows rose at the request, and he blinked a few times, making sure he had heard correctly. “The Last Lady of Crookback Bog?” he finally asked. “Why does the Wolf wish to know about her?”

“Call it curiosity,” Geralt answered, trying not to look too concerned by his reaction. “Got a contract to take her out. Like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

The Pellar frowned, running the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip in thought, before he pulled his lips into a wary ribbon, letting out a low hum as he reached to stroke his wizened chin. “The Wolf should be careful, if his goal is to harm the Last Lady,” he said at last, his voice grave. “The Pellar has heard rumours… rumours of her return to the Bog. Folk around the Bog have grown fiercely protective of her, knowing her to be the last. They feel it’s their duty to guard her, keep her safe from those who wish to do her harm.” Letting his hand fall back down again, he ran it along the string of chicken-feet around his neck, his thin mouth nearly inverting in a deepening frown as he stared at something on the far wall, past the teleprojection.

“The Wolf should be extra vigilant if he intends to hunt the Lady down,” he said, his voice taking on the ominous air of a man who had seen more than he intended. “He may find himself up against much more than he bargained for, otherwise.”

Geralt faltered at the warning, exchanging a worried glance with Yennefer, but she only shrugged, seeming just as lost in the soothsayer’s ambiguities as her husband. Turning back to the Pellar, Geralt cleared his throat, getting the old man’s attention, causing him to blink a few times before lifting his watery gaze to the two of them once more. “Any idea why someone would want her dead?” Geralt asked, hoping to get more information down a different route.

“To escape paying tribute, the Pellar assumes,” the Pellar answered, shrugging his thin shoulders at the guess. “The Ladies of the Wood demand sacrifice, but offer protection in return. Killing the last Lady would stop the sacrifice, but it would stop the protection as well.”

“And without the Ladies to protect them, the people of Velen might seek protection from something else,” Yennefer observed.

The Pellar thought for a moment, sucking his toothless gums before answering. “It’s a possibility,” he finally said. “Though the Pellar knows not who they would turn to, in that instance.”

Yennefer frowned at the answer, crossing her arms as she turned to look up at her husband again. “Do you think your demon might be trying to take the place of the Crone as Velen’s protector?” she asked, warily.

Geralt shrugged. “Doubt O’Dimm intends to _protect_ anything,” he answered, frankly. “Probably just looking for people scared and desperate enough to deal with him.” He paused at the thought, his brow furrowing again, before he folded his arms, letting out a curt sigh. “Don’t like the implications of opening Velen up to that, but… Crone isn’t much better,” he admitted. “No good choice in this one.”

“At least O’Dimm doesn’t eat children, I suppose,” Yennefer answered, dryly.

Geralt’s frown deepened at the observation, unsure if his wife was joking or not. “Pretty low bar,” he finally said, deciding it was not worth it to decipher. Turning to look back at the Pellar again, he unfolded his arms, propping his hands on his hips instead. “Speaking of the Crones, any update on the Baron and his wife?” he asked, curiously.

“Anna Strenger?” the Pellar returned, sounding surprised, his bushy brows lifting again at the question. “Nothing that the Pellar’s heard. Though he must say that the Baron’s men have been under much better control of late. The Pellar would guess it has something to do with a unit sent down from Vizima… one would almost suspect someone may have mentioned something about it to Nilfgaard’s new Empress, as it would seem the Empress has been making efforts to remove such corruption where she can manage it.” He grinned at the news, tapping the side of his bulbous red nose with a conspiratorial wink. “In the meantime, if the Wolf has time, perhaps he can visit the Baron and his wife in the Blue Mountains,” he suggested. “Perhaps check in on their progress, see how long until they return. If ever they do intend to return.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Geralt answered, nodding. “Doubt I’ll have time, though.”

“Time is a fleeting commodity,” the Pellar agreed, nodding his balding head along.

Yennefer sighed at the exchange, seeming to have gotten her fill of the conversation. “Thank you for your help, Pellar,” she told him, before waving a hand, causing the projection window to swiftly dissipate. Geralt watched as she turned away from the megascope, causing the crystals to hum faintly as they powered down, before she crossed instead to her desk, leaning on the polished wood as she stared across the library towards a far bookcase. “I suppose this means you’ll be leaving for Velen soon,” Yennefer observed after a moment, her voice flat. “You’ve only just returned from Vizima, and now you’re leaving again. For who knows how long this time.”

“Only until I kill the Crone,” Geralt assured her, moving up to stand behind her at the desk. He reached out a hand to touch her hip, only for her to quickly turn in response, causing him to retrieve it in surprise. “Be about… three weeks on horseback,” he said, a bit more warily this time. “Three weeks back. So, six weeks, give or take. Unless something happens to change it.”

“And what do you suspect might happen?” Yennefer insisted, folding her arms, her tone sharp at the suggestion. “You think you might die, and never return? Then what am I to do to protect Shani?”

Geralt frowned at the barrage of questions, taking a moment to observe his wife before answering. “Don’t think this is about that,” he finally said, watching Yennefer’s expression closely as he spoke. “Pretty sure it’s about something else. Never got to finish our conversation from the other day.”

Yennefer scoffed at the observation, turning her violet eyes downward to avoid his gaze. “I’m not sure how much more there is to discuss,” she told him, her voice stiff, clearly not used to being called out this way. “You were offered a deal from a demon, and you refused. Now you have to do three tasks to appease him. Simple.”

“Not gonna question it at all?” Geralt asked, his brow furrowing incredulously. “Just willing to accept it? Just like that? Doesn’t really seem like you, Yen.”

Yennefer hesitated, staring at the floor, her lips twitching in a thin line as she fought to find an answer. Then, letting out a long, quiet sigh, she looked up again, her anger much more visible and sincere this time. “What do you want, Geralt?” she asked him, quietly, her voice barely above a resentful whisper. “What do you want me to say?”

“Just want the truth,” Geralt answered, frankly.

Yennefer gave a soft snort. “I told you the truth,” she told him, her frown not lifting.

Geralt shook his head, folding his arms to mirror hers. “Don’t believe that,” he told her, bluntly. “Think you’re deflecting. Avoiding the topic. Just can’t figure out why.”

Yennefer paused at the accusation, standing perfectly still, hardly daring to even breathe in response; she stared at the far wall of bookcases as she thought, her arms crossed disapprovingly over her chest. “You can’t?” she finally asked, turning her face down so only a sliver of it was visible through her hair. “Well then, it seems pointless to tell you. If you can’t figure it out, why should I do it for you?” She pursed her lips, staring down at the floor as she waited for some response, before she quickly lifted her chin again, looking up at her husband with a stark, scornful stare. “No,” she decided, correcting herself, her voice much sharper now, finished playing games. “I _will_ tell you, Geralt. Because ignorance is no excuse. Not anymore.”

Geralt faltered at her tone, but held his expression, not allowing even one muscle to move in his face. He knew Yennefer often assumed his ignorance was feigned in these situations, and in some cases, she was right – with the dulled expressions his mutations had given him, it was sometimes easier to pretend not to understand, rather than admit culpability and be scolded for his poor decisions. But this was not one of those cases, and he felt his stomach knot at the thought of what was to come, but still he held his ground, waiting for what he knew was needed to finally put their emotional tug-of-war to rest.

Yennefer clenched her jaw, the muscles in her elegant face tensing as she stared at him across the room, seeming to be needing a moment to collect her thoughts before she began to lay into her husband. It was strange, Geralt thought, how beautiful she still was, even frightfully angry like this, and he wondered if that might not be part of what he found most attractive about her – the fact that she was so vibrant in her emotions, where he was so dull. “You ask me to accept these things at face value, but do you even—do you listen to half of what you say?” Yennefer insisted, pulling his focus quickly away from her beauty and back to her words. “When I repeat the specifics of these situations back to you, do you not hear how completely ludicrous they sound? Who lives like this, Geralt? Who? What other wife is expected to hear these things and be alright with them?”

“Didn’t think you’d be alright with them—” Geralt started to say, but found himself quickly cut off again.

“This isn’t a normal relationship, Geralt!” Yennefer insisted, her cheeks growing brighter with anger as she continued. “I feel like I’m living in some… bizarre alternate reality, where every day I wake up hoping today will be the day things go back to normal. Hoping that all of this will have been one long, terrible dream, and when I wake up, we’ll be back in Skellige, before any of this began.” Letting out a hard huff, she propped her hands on her hips, giving him a look he had not seen since his night out drinking with the boys at Kaer Morhen – she had mastered this look for his benefit, he was sure, and it never failed to make him feel like a schoolboy about to be given the switch. “This is not what I imagined when I agreed to settle down,” she told him, her voice stiff, though he could detect a hint of a waver in it now. “I wanted peace and quiet, a normal married life, not… demons and near-death experiences.”

“What I wanted, too,” Geralt agreed, but Yennefer only shook her head.

“No,” Yennefer said, curtly. “I don’t think it is. Do you want to know what I think, Geralt?” She took a deep breath, staring across at him with the detached regality of a sorceress, looking every bit the ice queen she allowed others to believe she was. “I think you never intended to settle down,” she told him, bluntly. “I think you were simply broken up about losing Ciri. About losing the daughter who worshipped you. You felt insecure, so you went looking for something to give you that sense of security back. I think it didn’t matter to you who you married—me, or anyone else. You just wanted to get married to _someone_ because you thought it would make you feel whole again.”

Geralt felt his face grow hot at the accusation, before realizing with a start that she was right – he had brought up the topic of marriage to Shani weeks before ever bringing it up to Yennefer. He supposed he had spent so long thinking about marrying Yennefer that it had never occurred to him to actually _ask_—until he remembered that he had told Dandelion barely days before how he would have happily married Shani, if it meant doing the right thing for her and her child. He felt a sharp twist in his gut, wondering if Yennefer was not completely right about him, before he quickly pushed the thought from his mind, realizing how ridiculous it was to even consider.

He had known from the start that Shani would never say yes to him – the flames of their passion had long died down too much to amount to anything – but his feelings about the life she described had been real, all the same. He wanted that life with Yennefer, and Shani had helped him to realize that. Yennefer was the woman he wanted to be with forever, and that would never change.

“You never actually intended to change your ways,” Yennefer told him, drawing him sharply in again, though he found his defences lower now, his gaze softer as he looked upon her, listening to her words. “You were merely frightened of being alone, and wanted something symbolic to ensure it wouldn’t happen again. I see a man who regrets his decision, because he feels stifled—suffocated by the domesticity he claimed to crave, the life he promised his wife would be the way things were from now on.” She paused, pursing her lips, forcing back a lump in her throat as she fought to steady her breath, and Geralt felt his heart ache at the sight, wishing he could say something to make her stop and realize how wrong she was.

“I see a man who’s tearing at the seams,” Yennefer continued, her voice wavering, though she was clearly trying hard not to let it break. “Deluding himself into thinking he isn’t constantly trying to break free of the life he created. Tell me, Geralt, if you could leave right now, go back to the Path with Ciri, would you not take that opportunity?”

“No,” Geralt answered, assuredly. “Don’t want to be on the Path. Not with Ciri, or anyone else.”

Yennefer scoffed, looking away again, folding her arms around herself in a self-contained hug. “I find that hard to believe,” she told him.

“Don’t care,” Geralt answered, bluntly. “Told you what I want. Whether you believe me or not is your prerogative.”

Yennefer frowned at the answer, saying nothing for a moment, her lips trembling briefly before she caught them, stilling them again. “Would you rather be married to Shani, then?” she asked, the question taking Geralt by surprise.

“…What?” Geralt answered, making a face, sure he had heard her incorrectly.

Yennefer huffed, turning her violet gaze up to her husband again. “Don’t ‘what’ me, Geralt,” she told him, sharply. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. The way you talk to her, so naturally. She’s a beautiful woman, capable of bearing your children. You’d be a fool not to feel something for her.”

“Guess I’m a fool, then,” Geralt answered, his tone firm, annoyed she would even ask. “Shani’s just a friend, Yen. Can even ask her yourself. Don’t want to be married to anyone but you.”

Yennefer’s brow furrowed in doubt, and she tucked her arms more tightly around herself in a protective circle, before she finally let out a long sigh, looking down again, seeming almost to shrink before his eyes. “I’m sorry, Geralt,” she told him, softly, her voice shaking now, seeming much more human. “All of this, it’s just… too much. It’s too much right now. These tasks, and having to protect Shani’s baby…” She faltered, her gaze still fixed the floor, before she took a deep breath, moving her hands to clasp her slender shoulders. “None of it feels real, still,” she admitted, shaking her head in bewilderment at the thought. “I don’t think it’s all quite hit me, just yet. I’ll be able to sort it out eventually, I’m sure, but… what am I supposed to feel in the meantime?”

“What do you mean?” Geralt asked, frowning, working hard to keep his voice gentle.

Yennefer sucked her lip, before letting out another sigh, this one more tense than the last. “I’m no fool,” she insisted, looking up at him again, trying hard not to let her voice break. “I know how absurd it sounds—someone spontaneously offering mages the ability to bear children. It’s impossible, it _has_ to be. If it was that simple, someone would have figured it out long ago. But…” She stopped, her body tensing, as if trying to physically hold her heart in place, keeping it from leaping into her throat and choking her, letting loose the emotions she was trying so hard not to show. “If the sorceress who came here was so convinced it was true that she was willing to kill three people for it…” she said, quietly, “…what am I supposed to think?”

“Yen…” Geralt started to say, but stopped, realizing he had no idea what to tell her. She was right, and he had no argument to disprove her, as much as he wished he did.

Yennefer frowned, seeming disappointed that her husband had no comfort to offer. “I don’t have all the answers, Geralt,” she told him after a moment, shaking her head again, her expression honest. “I wish I did, but it feels like every day I keep having less of them. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel anymore. I feel… lost. Tired. Confused. _Scared_. Scared that I’m losing you a little more every day. Like you’re drifting away from me, piece by piece, and one day I’ll wake up and you’ll just be… gone. Maybe not physically, but… you won’t be the same. And somehow, that’s… so much worse.” She paused at the thought, her eyes growing misty, her lips pursing for a moment to contain their trembling, before she quickly dropped her gaze to the floor again, hiding her face behind the curtain of her hair.

Geralt frowned at the shift, forgetting all tension of before as he moved to take hold of his wife, pulling her in close and resting a reassuring hand on her back, feeling her breath stagger against his palm. Brushing a dark swath of her hair aside, he tucked it clumsily behind her ear, clearing half of her face, before pressing his lips softly to her forehead, running a calloused thumb tenderly across her weary cheek. Yennefer let out a shuddering sigh, reaching up a small hard to curl around his larger one, before allowing herself to lean into his comfort, nestling her face in his palm as the first tear skated silently down her cheek.

“I’m afraid I’m losing the man I love,” Yennefer told him, quietly, still not daring to look up at him as she spoke. “You’ve been trying so hard to find purpose after Ciri that… you can’t see that your purpose is to just be here, with me.”

Geralt shook his head, reaching out to brush the other half of her hair gently from her face. “Could never forget that,” he told her, quietly. “Wouldn’t bother to be alive, if not for you. Only reason I wake up every day is because I get to do it next to you.” He kissed her forehead again, breathing in the deep, floral scent of her hair, feeling the soft brush of her cheek against his hand as a second tear pooled at the spot where they met. He touched a finger under her chin, tilting her face gently upward to meet his, and he kissed her cheek, drying the salty trail, before moving his lips down to embrace hers.

Yennefer sighed as she felt his mouth brush against hers, gently at first, and then with more fervour, kissing her with slow, gentle passion as he pulled her in close, needing to feel her body against his. It had been too long since he had been with Yennefer, had seen her smile in a way she saved only for him, had felt her skin grow warm and wet against his as she held him close, never wanting to let go. He kissed her jaw, and then her ear, feeling her shudder against his hand as he moved his mouth across her skin, trailing soft kisses down her neck as his second hand slid down her jacket to unfasten her clasps. She gave a soft gasp as she felt her jacket pop open, before her mouth was quickly covered with another kiss, and she sighed as she felt Geralt’s hand slide inside her shirt, giving a soft moan and squeak as it enveloped her tender breast.

Through the soft material of her blouse, Yennefer could feel the outline of his cock against her stomach, hard and warm against the clasp of his pants as he coaxed her back gently against the desk. She huffed as she was moved, gasping for breath, sliding her arms around Geralt’s neck as she kissed him, feeling as he pulled his hand from her shirt again to instead slide it across her supple backside, squeezing it between his fingers. “Geralt!” Yennefer gasped, feeling as his cock brushed teasingly up against her thigh – it pulsed against her skin, making her heart beat faster, but she shook her head, pushing the thought of what lay just beneath his trousers from her mind. “Geralt—please! We have guests!”

“Let them hear,” Geralt growled, kissing her neck again. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” Then, picking her up, he sat her squarely atop the desk, earning a short, surprised gasp from the sorceress as he began to spread her legs, starting to unfasten her pants.

Yennefer parted her lips as she watched him, fighting her instinct to allow him to continue, before she quickly shook her head again, using one hand to gently push his hands away from her lacings. “Geralt… no,” she told him, gently, reaching up a hand to cup his disappointed cheek. “When you get back, maybe we can revisit this, but right now… I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” She sighed, giving him a sympathetic look, almost laughing at the dog-like distress in his yellow eyes. “You know I wouldn’t usually say no,” she told him, running her thumb gently across his scruffy beard. “But we’ve got too many guests just outside still, and… you need to start getting ready for your tasks.”

Geralt frowned at the assessment, before looking down, letting out a faint, distressed huff. “Can’t… go out just yet,” he told her, a bit embarrassed by his precarious condition. It would not be the first time any of their guests had seen him standing attention, he realized – especially around Yennefer – but he still had no desire to be teased about such things right before heading off to potential death.

Yennefer chuckled at the rigid situation, starting to fasten the clasps of her jacket again. “I can see that,” she told him. “It’s alright. You can stay here until it goes down again.”

Geralt grunted, watching as her deft fingers made short work of his small achievement. “Gonna be a month and a half before I see you again,” he told her, regretfully.

Yennefer looked up at the comment, thinking a moment as she rested her hands beside her on the desk. “I don’t see why it has to be,” she finally said, looking up at her husband with a pointed expression. “I only didn’t portal you to Vizima because I hoped to teach you a lesson. But the only one who learned a lesson in that instance was me. I learned my husband will kill himself if left to his own devices for more than a week.” Sliding off the desk, she smoothed her jacket, before moving around to open one of the lower drawers, starting to rummage around inside. “I’d been working on something for you before Vizima,” she said, pushing aside a stack of neatly-rolled parchment as she searched. “I started work on it when you mentioned wanting to visit Ciri, but I didn’t manage to finish it before you left. I had some time to work on it while you were away, however, and I think it’s just about functional now…”

Pausing in her searching, she stared into the drawer, before her pretty brows lifted and she let out a short, sharp gasp, clearly spotting what she was looking for. “There it is!” she said, triumphantly, reaching deeper into the drawer to pull it out. Standing again, she held up her find, showing off what looked to be two compasses on sturdy twine, before she set one aside on her desk, handing the second to Geralt and allowing him a moment to inspect the trinket.

“It’s a xenovox,” Geralt said, looking between his own and the one on the desk. “Which one’s the communicator?”

“They both are,” Yennefer answered, sounding incredibly proud of herself. “I’ve modified them to work both ways, as it seemed rather pointless to have only one person capable of communicating in case of emergency. This way, if anything changes on either end, we can let the other know about it immediately.”

Geralt nodded in thanks, tucking the xenovox into a pouch at his belt. “Thanks, Yen,” he said, before stopping, staring down fervently at the petite sorceress standing in front of him. He hated the thought of leaving again so soon; his time with Yennefer was so limited anymore that he barely got to see her, let alone be with her, when being with her was all he ever wanted. He wanted a simple, quiet life with Yennefer, and he knew now that that was all she had ever wanted, too, and he let out a soft sigh, his brow furrowing faintly as he searched her gaze, lost for a moment in her beautiful amethyst eyes. “Can I… at least hold you for a while before I have to go?” he asked, his voice quiet, so soft he barely recognized it as his own.

Yennefer hesitated at the request, before she offered him a soft, loving smile in return. “I suppose I don’t see the harm in that,” she agreed, moving in to close the space between them. Pushing his medallion aside, she nestled her face in the warm indent of his chest, breathing in his musky, wild scent as she slid her hands across his muscular back. He was nothing if not a man, she thought, but there was such nuance in him that only she got to see – his insecurities, his embarrassments, the way he fretted about his clumsy hands breaking delicate things. He was force and logic, where she was cunning and grace, but there were things in life that took more than logic to decipher, things Geralt wanted so much to have, to make himself better than the Trials had built him.

Geralt pulled his wife in as close as he could, burying his face in the soft slope of her neck, wishing he could make time stop, if only to make this moment last forever. Yennefer was everything to him, and he knew he did not deserve her – yet here she was beside him, giving him hope, pulling him from the fire, as she always had. “Love you, Yen,” he told her, quietly, his voice muffled by the soft waves of her hair.

“I love you too, Geralt,” Yennefer returned, gently, pressing a soft kiss to his scruffy cheek.


	15. Wolfsbane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Content Warning for this chapter: gore and mention of child death - just in case anyone needs that tagged specifically)
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving to my American readers (and to everyone, I hope you're doing well and staying safe!) As always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated! ♡

The mires of Crookback Bog reeked of evil and rot, causing Yennefer to wrinkle her nose, her pretty mouth twisting in a discouraged line as she straightened her husband’s armour. “Don’t hesitate to contact me if something goes wrong,” she told him, combing her fingers worriedly through his hair. “It’s more important for you to live than to die performing these tasks.”

Geralt nodded in understanding, patting the pouch at his belt where the xenovox weighed against his hip. “Got it,” he said, smiling as he watched her fret over him. “Not planning on dying on the first task.”

Yennefer huffed, looking up at him again, her unamused stare a stark foil to his playful grin. “Your sense of humour needs work,” she told him, straightening his wolf medallion on its chain. She frowned, touching each buckle of his outfit in turn to make sure they were securely fastened, before she straightened his pauldrons with a heavy sigh, realizing she was only wasting time in an effort not to let him go. “I expect to hear from you by tomorrow,” she told him, tapping a soft, scolding finger against his chest. “If I don’t, I’ll assume you’ve died. I’m not prepared to be a widow yet, so I would avoid that at all costs, if I were you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of tasking you with my funeral,” Geralt answered, his grin widening as he teased her. “Just leave me to the drowners. More environmentally conscious.”

“Stop it,” Yennefer hissed, looking up at her husband again sharply. “I know what you’re trying to do, but… allow me to be worried for you.” She pursed her lips, brushing a bit of hair from his eyes that had fallen loose in the breeze, before letting out a soft sigh, moving her arms around his waist to hold him as she looked up into his face. “We’ve been married barely five months,” she told him, as if the shortness of their time together had only just hit her. “I don’t wish to lose you when I’ve barely had an opportunity to be your wife just yet.”

Geralt nodded, reaching down to tuck a lock of dark hair behind her ear, before cupping her face softly in his gloved hand, running a leather-clad thumb across her cheek. “Don’t intend to let anything happen,” he assured her, his voice quieter, speaking sincerely this time. “Just killing a monster, collecting a trophy. Do this all the time.”

Yennefer frowned, reaching up to cover the hand on her face with her own. “I love you, Geralt,” she told him, softly, leaning into his palm with a weary sigh. Then, letting go of his hand again, she took a step back, opening a portal in the swamp, causing an eerie wind to whip Geralt’s face as he watched his wife step through the swirling vortex, disappearing back to Toussaint.

The sudden silence of the Bog was nearly deafening in Yennefer’s absence, and Geralt turned as the quiet enveloped him, unable to help feeling very alone without his wife’s guiding presence to comfort him. Taking a few steps forward, he scanned the empty marsh for some sign of the Crone, knowing full well if she had left a trail of any kind, it would likely be long destroyed by now. It had been months since he had last been to the Bog, but not much had changed about it in that time; it was still as barren, repetitive, and unpleasant as it had always been, a wasteland of dying trees and overgrown grasses, with the stench of stagnant water and rot making him nearly sick to breathe.

There were bodies here, Geralt knew – not only the bodies of monsters he, himself had left behind, but also human bodies, slain by others, their corpses left to putrefy in the swamp where no one would think to look for them. He had come across the corpse of the Pellar’s own father here not too long ago, he remembered, and he could not help wondering how many others had been left to decay here in obscurity. That thought was soon followed by another, an unconscious, morbid curiosity, and he found himself wondering if he might not become one of those corpses himself today, and if Yennefer would even be able to find him if he were to be killed out here in the swamp.

Shaking the gruesome thought from his mind, Geralt started forward on his path through the marsh, picking his way around muck-holes and warrens as he searched for some lingering trace of the Crone. He was sure she would not have returned to the cottages where Anna Strenger had kept her wards – the place was too known now, too dangerous, and would make her too much of a target for those seeking revenge for the pain and suffering she and her sisters had inflicted on the people of Downwarren. As it was, the landscape had no rhyme or reason, no tracks or scent for him to pick up and follow; it was overrun with animal bones, excrement, and the footprints of drowners running from mere to mere, pockmarking the mud with their grotesque webbed feet, making it impossible to see where anything else might have tread.

It felt like an eternity of searching, mostly in vain – until, suddenly, Geralt noticed an odd shape in the path, a bright, inorganically-moulded remnant of something floating in one of the many boggy puddles. Approaching the object, the witcher looked down at it, tilting his head to observe the unusual shape, before he suddenly recognized it as a heart-shaped cookie, similar to the ones he had found hanging along the original trail of treats. Crouching down to the treat, he picked it up, turning it over to inspect it, before making a face and crushing the spoiled cookie in his fist, dumping the maggoty crumbles back into the swamp.

If the Crone was still out here, this meant she was still trying to lure children to her for meat, and Geralt felt his stomach turn as he looked up again, noting the newly-laid trail of pastries leading deeper into the mire. The bloated, soggy forms of the cookies floated eerie and bright atop the sodden path, only to disappear after only a few more treats, the rest having clearly been eaten by bog creatures or dissolved by the rancid water where they had been left. Getting to his feet, the witcher kicked aside another half-liquefied treat in the path, before he quickly looked up towards the marsh again, listening as the mournful sound of a half-howl, half-growl reached his ears.

The sound was easily identifiable as a werewolf, though what a werewolf could be doing in the Bog was beyond him to guess; he had never known werewolves to inhabit this place, but he had been surprised by the resilience of monsters before. It would not be the first time he had found something living in a place it had no business to be, after all – he remembered well the kikimora nest he had purged from beneath a winery in Toussaint, but the memory was soon pushed from his mind by the sudden vibration of his medallion against his chest, the solid hum of the necklace making the hair on the back of his neck prickle with sensitivity.

Glancing around, Geralt narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out where the magical aura was coming from; while the idea of something with strong magical energy residing in the Bog was bad enough, the thought of it being intelligent enough to hide from him was somehow even worse. For a moment, he wondered if the magic was being concealed by some sort of illusory spell – until another moment later, when the medallion hummed again, this time accompanied by the sound of something approaching through the swamp; something large, with heavy, pounding feet and even heavier, ragged breath.

Looking up towards the coming sound, Geralt watched as the creature came bounding towards him, taking a step back as it finally emerged from the shadows of the Bog to stand before him. The beast pulled up short before reaching him, rearing up on its muscular hind legs to stand, before looking down at the witcher with bared, yellow teeth, watching as he stared, unflinchingly, back up into its face. The werewolf looked much less threatening than he had anticipated, now that he could see it up close; it was scrawny and sallow, as if it had not eaten a proper meal in quite some time, and dressed in the tattered remains of what he guessed had once been a human man’s clothes. Looking the beast over, Geralt found his gaze suddenly drawn to a severed human ear tied to the side of the werewolf’s head, and he felt his medallion give another hum, clearly recognizing the magical energy it had detected earlier from deeper in the swamp.

Geralt remembered too well the sacrifices the Crones had demanded from the frightened folk of Downwarren, the severed ears the Whispess had worn around her neck like a trophy, enchanted to allow her to hear all goings-on within the swamp. Leaning in for a better look, the witcher nearly winced as he examined the gruesome adornment, noting that the tightness with which it was knotted around the werewolf’s skull had begun to slice deeply into the beast’s tender flesh. The werewolf’s skin beneath the twine was puffy and scarred, the fur around it matted with dried brown blood, and Geralt could plainly see where patches of fur had begun to rub off, spots where the string was tied particularly tightly around the werewolf’s skull.

Taking another step closer, Geralt paused as the werewolf began to snarl softly, the fur on the back of its trunk-like neck standing on end as it faced off with its newfound foe. The witcher flexed his hand at his side, waiting for the werewolf to make the first move – but after a while of no response, he realized such a move was unlikely to come. The wolf was all bark and no bite, it seemed, and for a moment he could not help wondering if this was some kind of trap, a distraction set up by the remaining Crone to ensure threatening-looking visitors never made it to her doorstep. From the haggard, famished look of the werewolf, however, he figured the creature would not put up much of a fight, so it stood to reason that this was not an encounter orchestrated by the Crone for her protection. This was merely an act of desperation on the part of the werewolf, a creature who appeared just as afraid of the Bog and its residents as any unwitting visitor might be.

“Who are you?” the werewolf insisted, the lip of his muzzle lifting to reveal the first points of his yellowish teeth. His whiskers trembled as he spoke, his nervous eyes darting between the witcher and the path behind him, as if equally afraid of what might have followed him as he was of the man who stood before him.

Geralt frowned at the strange question, wondering what importance his name served to anything going on in the Bog. “You know who I am,” he answered after a moment, deciding to tread with caution. “And you know why I’m here.”

The werewolf hesitated, his ragged ears flattening as a flicker of acceptance glinted through his dulled golden eyes – as strange as it seemed, he appeared neither afraid nor resentful of the witcher for his profession. It was an unusual mix, Geralt thought, and an eerie one, the idea of a creature so accepting of death he did not even seem to begrudge the one who had come with the intent to give it to him. “I do,” the werewolf answered after a while, his voice stiff, as if merely conversing a change of guard duty. “You needn’t worry… I’m no longer a threat. I starve, for the swamp is poisoned. I’ve no strength left to hunt humans.”

Geralt grunted, his suspicions about the werewolf’s failing health having been confirmed. “Crone summon you?” he asked, not risking changing the tone of the conversation.

The werewolf hummed, the sound coming out as a low, burbling growl, before he straightened on his strong hind legs, coming to tower at least a foot over the witcher. “In my sleep…” he answered, an odd, wistful tone entering his voice this time. Looking up past Geralt, he stared out towards the tops of the trees in the distance, the waning, marshy light of midday casting a watery glass over his sombre yellow eyes. “Once, I had wolf dreams,” he added, his voice trailing, as if only half-aware of what he was saying. “Now I dream only hunger… pain, and blood.”

Geralt’s brow darkened at the words, and for a moment he had to resist turning to look at whatever the werewolf was staring at. From the creature’s description, it seemed the Crone had used her power to get inside his head, corrupting him with visions, drawing him in with promises, and then sickening him, using her dark magic to force him to serve as her protector. The harsh conditions of Crookback Bog were no place for a werewolf to survive, he knew – the only things that could live here were amphibious monsters and those that fed on rot, not creatures intelligent enough to realize when they had been manipulated, but too frightened by the potential consequences to attempt escape. “Where is she?” he asked, drawing the werewolf back again, causing him to blink a few times, still lost in wistful thoughts.

The werewolf hesitated, staring at the witcher, as if deciding whether or not to trust him. Then, turning, he pointed back behind him. “Out there,” he answered, simply. “In the swamp.” Returning his gaze to Geralt again, the werewolf’s ears pricked forward at the sound of a sword being drawn, before he dropped his gaze to the blade in Geralt’s hand, his expression falling just as quickly to meet it. Looking up to the witcher’s face again, the werewolf stared at him pleadingly, his expression wretched, a far cry from the defensive anger usually brought on by the sight of the silver sword. “Is there no other way?” the werewolf asked, his voice soft, clearly knowing the answer, and Geralt faltered at the question, surprised by the beast’s resigned manner in light of his coming fate.

This werewolf was unlike any other the witcher had encountered over the years, as even the most remorseful of those usually turned feral at the sight of his silver sword. This one, however, seemed more concerned with retaining his humanity than his head, a thought which made Geralt’s hand falter on his blade, readjusting his grip as he considered. “There’s one,” he finally decided, lowering the tip of his blade to the swamp. “Find the Crone. Guide me through the swamp— to her.”

“And then?” the werewolf asked, still hardly daring to hope.

“Then I’ll see,” Geralt answered, knowing he could promise no more than that.

The werewolf snorted, seeming less than satisfied with the open-ended response, but he said nothing, clearly realizing it was likely the best he was going to get. “The Crone…” he spoke again after a moment, growing bolder in his conversation with the increasingly lenient witcher. “What’s she done to you?”

“Stole my daughter’s medallion,” Geralt answered, simply.

The werewolf paused again, his whiskers twitching, seeming to be pondering what dangers waited for so simple a task. “If I may… why risk it?” he finally asked. “The Crone will fight – like a hundred wolverine, she’ll fight. She may cripple, even kill you.” Crouching lower to the swamp, he folded his clawed hands together, his ears flattening to his head, looking the world like a frightened puppy at the thought of what awaited at the last Crone’s hut. “Find the girl a new pendant,” he urged, his fear obvious in the tremor of his voice. “Her sorrow will pass, in time.”

“I can’t,” Geralt answered, shaking his head.

“Why not?” the werewolf pressed, turning his yellow gaze up to meet the witcher’s again.

Geralt frowned, absentmindedly testing the weight of his sword, before stashing it in the sheath on his back again with soft, frustrated exhale. “My reasons are my own,” he said, quickly growing tired of the werewolf’s stalling. He knew the wolf feared her – he had said so, himself – but his fear was only holding Geralt back from his task, and he jerked a hand towards the swamp, annoyed that he had to be so upfront about it. “Go.”

The werewolf faltered, his ragged ears flattening for a moment, before he swallowed, turning away and waving a hand for Geralt to follow. To the witcher’s disappointment, the wolf did not seem to know an easier path through the Bog, but he followed as closely as he could as the beast splashed through stagnant water and across muddy banks, not bothering to avoid knee-deep puddles or sinking mud-pits as he led Geralt on through the swamp. The witcher had to nearly run in an effort to keep up with the werewolf’s four-legged pace, trying to ignore the soggy sensation in his leather boots and knowing well the ear-twisting he was likely to get when he arrived home reeking of a Velen bog. Still, the thought of seeing Yennefer again at all was enough to keep his heart light, even as he pulled his sole from the sucking mud, shaking it off before continuing after the werewolf through the swamp.

If Ciri were here, she would find the idea of him slogging through a bog in pursuit of a lost necklace hilarious, he realized, and he decided he would have to tell her all about this whenever he returned back home. Perhaps he could leave out a few details, he decided, particularly about the rancid sludge piling up in his expensive boots, though it occurred to him that it was bold to assume he would return from this at all. His last encounter with the Crones had seen him nearly gored on the antlers of a fiend one of the sisters had summoned, but the thought of anything besides success was not something he was willing to consider right now.

Shaking the dreary thought from his head, Geralt instead turned his attention to the werewolf again. “What’s your name?” he asked, earning a surprised, fleeting glance back over the creature’s shoulder.

“Berem,” the werewolf answered, his voice solemn, as if he had not thought about it in quite some time.

Geralt nodded, edging his way around a nearly pitch-black pit of murky water, recognizing the sinkhole as a drowner’s nest and not wanting to disturb any creatures of the swamp. “Good name,” he said, earning a pleased flick of the werewolf’s ears in response. “Lead me to the Crone, Berem.”

The acknowledgement of his human name seemed to bolster the werewolf’s enthusiasm, and he quickly picked up his pace, leading the witcher deeper into the swamp. The trees grew thicker around them as they continued, the sickly yellowed leaves strangling out the already-murky sunlight, but Berem seemed to know where he was going even without the sun, and he glanced back, making sure the witcher had not fallen behind. “Witcher…” he suddenly spoke again, causing Geralt to look up, surprised to hear the wolf addressing him. He sounded hesitant this time, as if afraid to breach the subject, not wanting to ask too much. “There’s a wolf den nearby,” Berem told him. “Wolf cubs inside. Please… carry them out of the swamp.” His expression grew stern as he said this, turning his attention back to the marshy lands ahead, his whiskers quivering as he let out a low breath through his wet black nose, still thoughtful.

“They’ll not survive here,” Berem added, as if he had witnessed this too many times before. “They’ll die, if left to the swamp’s influences. Or they’ll change into something… evil.” Geralt faltered at the last addendum, wondering what wicked things Berem had seen, but he decided against asking, not wanting to risk further slowing their trek through the swamp. Pushing aside a low-hanging branch, he followed the wolf through the darkening trees, unable to help wondering what sort of man Berem had been before the lycanthropy had been put upon him. Even in this darkest of hours, his humanity still found ways to shine unexpectedly through – he was cursed, starving, being forced to act as a sentry for a cause he did not believe in, yet his first thoughts still went to the wolf and her cubs, his first plead to the witcher to save the young pups, rather than asking to save himself.

Unfortunately, the thought did not have long to linger before Geralt found their progress cut short, halted suddenly as Berem stopped in his tracks, standing again on his hind legs to sniff the breeze. Treading quietly through the muck to the wolf, Geralt came to stand patiently at his side, watching as Berem tested the air, his yellow eyes narrowing as he tried to identify the new smell. “I sense a wolf…” he reported after a moment, his voice low. “…And men.”

Geralt frowned at the news, looking out towards the swamp, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the men Berem could smell on the breeze; the Pellar’s warning about the villages nearest the Bog growing increasingly protective of the Crone was still fresh in his mind, and the thought of encountering any of her newfound extremists was not a pleasant one. “How many?” he asked, keeping his voice low as well.

Berem sniffed at the air again, his furry brow darkening. “Ten,” he answered, solemnly. “No more.”

Geralt let out a hard breath at the report, his hand itching at his side for his meteorite blade, but he clenched his fist instead, before holding out a hand to stop Berem from proceeding. “Stay out of it,” he told the werewolf, before starting to walk in the direction of the camp, not bothering to look back at the worried face of the creature left standing behind him as he went.

* * *

Ten hunters had been at the camp when Geralt arrived, and now, ten corpses lay strewn across the mud at his feet. He had only taken out six on his own – the other four had been handled by Berem, who had turned up halfway through the fight despite the witcher warning him otherwise. Still, Geralt found he could not be too frustrated with the werewolf’s protective instincts, and, turning to look for him again, he spotted the wolf at the edge of the camp, rolling over one of the hunters’ corpses to stare at the fresh wound on the side of his head.

Geralt had noticed the wound as well, before the hunters had started what would be their last fight, and he wondered if the ear missing from the human man’s head was the same one so gruesomely tied to Berem’s. Berem had fared with only a single wound from the fight, a deep cut in his shoulder from a hunter’s axe, but the evidence of his own actions were far more brutal: fresh blood covered his hands and muzzle, soaking through what little remained of his clothes, but Geralt knew he had no room to judge how the werewolf had turned out from the scuffle. Blood matted in clumps in the witcher’s hair, drying in sticky patches to his face and beard, clinging to every inch of his clothes as he crossed the camp to the she-wolf at last.

The she-wolf stood at the edge of the encampment, her fur caked in mud and matted with fresh blood, whining and snarling as she attempted to yank her foreleg free from the bear-trap she was caught in. It was a wicked, rusty-looking contraption, much too large for an animal of her size, and Geralt could see that her leg was clearly broken by the trap’s unforgiving teeth. The she-wolf snarled as he approached, yanking on her leg in the grisly snare, and he could see the look of fear and pain in her eyes as she stared up at him, baring her teeth in an act of defiance.

She had every right to fear him, just as she had every right to fear the hunters who had ensnared her – at first glance, she had no reason to think the witcher any different from them. To her, he was just another man, another threat to her life and her young, his golden eyes and silver hair no more a thought to her than the wolf-head medallion around his neck. Geralt watched for a moment as the she-wolf tried in vain to lick at a bone spur poking through her matted fur, feeling his stomach turn in pity at the sight of an animal in such distress; he realized now there was a reason witchers often hated men as much as most men hated witchers. The more he saw of men – their wickedness, their selfishness, their cruelty, their misplaced pride – the more he preferred to share common ground with animals like these instead.

The she-wolf snarled at him as he approached, recognizing the stench of blood on his clothes, and he stopped short again, realizing she was still afraid of him, despite all he had just done for her. She was only an animal after all, and as an animal she knew only trust and fear – and from what he had just shown her, she had every right to fear him more than anything. Turning to Berem again, Geralt ran a gloved hand over his sticky face, attempting to clear at least some of the blood still clinging to his lashes and beard. “Get her out,” he instructed, pointing to the she-wolf, causing her to bristle at the gesture, before baring her reddened gums as Berem did as he was told, padding forward on cautious feet to unhinge the trap from around her leg.

“I mean you no harm, little mother,” Berem told her, his voice deep with gentle vibrato. The softness of his tone seemed to calm the wolf down, and she hesitated, before she began to whine again, attempting once more to lick at the bone still sticking out of her wounded leg.

Werewolves were strong creatures, Geralt knew, but Berem was malnourished and gentle, and he could not help wondering if he would even be able to open the trap to release the mother wolf – but the sound of the latch-spring breaking in half was enough to dispel his worries, and he watched as the she-wolf let out a sharp yelp, before retreating back a few limping paces to finally lick her wounds. Berem shushed the she-wolf gently, trying to soothe her as he attempted to approach, but the sound of something from deeper in the swamp seemed to have most of her attention. The she-wolf howled, the sound almost piteous coming from a throat so dry, before she began to whine again, flattening her ears and laying her head down in the dirt.

“She hears her young,” Berem informed Geralt, looking up at him again with solemn eyes. “They must be nearby. The den is not safe. Without the mother, the pups are unprotected.”

Geralt nodded, turning his head to listen for the telltale sounds of pups deeper in the swamp. At first, he could only hear the sound of the she-wolf whining as Berem attempted to dress her wound – but, drawing on his training, he closed his eyes, concentrating hard to tune out the sounds of the closest distractions, until he slowly began to hear the high, sharp yips of several smaller creatures through the din of the bog. The pups’ cries were faint at first, too faint to follow, but they grew steadily louder as he honed in on them, gradually isolating the sound of the cries from every other noise around him. Opening his eyes again, Geralt turned swiftly in the direction of the isolated sound, following the puppies’ faint cries past a cluster of trees and through a dense, knee-high thicket of tall, yellowish grass.

The swamp worked well to mask any scent apart from the stench of stagnant water and rotting leaves, but he could still catch faint whiffs of wolf fur on the breeze as he followed the trail of the noise. The smell of wolf urine and rotting flesh grew stronger as he continued through the marsh, the pups’ squeals growing gradually louder, eventually leading him in the direction of a nearby willow tree. The tree’s skinny, sloping trunk was barely visible through the matted thicket of swamp-grass, its roots growing upward in serpentine coils, weaving together at the base to create what Geralt soon realized was the mouth of a tiny cave. Crouching down to the opening, he realized the smell of wolf urine and rotting meat was much stronger here, and, peering in through the darkness, he allowed his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light.

Three pairs of golden eyes stared back at him from the far wall of the den, and the pups began to whine as they spotted the witcher, terrified of the heavy-footed, blood-covered stranger. Geralt hummed softly in response to their whines, allowing a slight smile to curve the corners of his stoic lips, before he reached into his hip-satchel, starting to slowly pull out a chunk of smoke-dried beef. He had been looking forward to having it later that day, but he figured they would appreciate it more than he would, and, tearing off a few bite-sized pieces, he set them down gently outside the mouth of the cave. Then, kneeling in the muddy grass, he meditated lightly, half-watching the root formation, silent and patient as he waited for the pups to come out and investigate.

It took a few minutes of waiting before the first pup finally emerged from the den, his tiny black nose glittering wet in the swamp-light as he poked it cautiously from the shadow of the cave mouth. The pup sniffed curiously at the piece of jerky, nudging it once to see if it was safe for taking, before he quickly snatched it up, pulling it back inside the den, only to be greeted by the excited yips of his siblings as they inspected his brave spoils. Geralt could hear Berem approaching from behind him, the werewolf’s usually heavy footfalls muted by the care he was taking, until he finally came to squat behind the witcher in the grass, squinting to peer in towards the darkened den as well.

“Are they in there?” Berem asked, quietly, not wanting to startle the pups.

“Three pups,” Geralt answered, just as quietly. “The mother?”

“Wounded badly,” Berem returned, solemnly, but there was less melancholy in his voice than before. “She is too weak and injured to hunt for her pups. She will not be able to make it out of the swamp on her own.”

Geralt hummed, tearing another few chunks of dried meat from his lunch, before setting them out a bit further from the cave mouth, sitting back again to allow the pups time to emerge and investigate. It took only a few short moments this time before the first little black nose appeared from the cave, followed quickly by another, and then a third, all snuffling curiously at the tasty-smelling air. The first pup, the trailblazer, was again the first to emerge, bounding out to snatch a piece of meat before returning to the den, settling down just within the mouth to gnaw eagerly at his hard-won prize. The puppies appeared to be getting braver with each piece of jerky the first pup stole, and it did not take long before the second pup emerged as well, sniffing cautiously as she padded towards the dried meat.

The second pup took her time to approach, as if closing in on wily prey, and, tearing off another piece, Geralt held it out for her to investigate, feeling Berem’s warm breath on his back as the cub crept closer. The wolf cub sniffed at the witcher’s hand, before quickly grabbing the snack from his fingers, leaping back sharply towards the den and letting out a high-pitched growl before dropping down to enjoy her meat. Realizing the food was coming from the stranger, the first and third pups seemed to forget their gunshy disposition, padding out to join the second as she all but inhaled her hard-earned snack. The little girl growled at her siblings as they snuffled curiously at her prize, and so, thwarted, they turned their attention to the witcher’s hip-pouch instead, where the smell of dried meat still lingered.

The first pup was quick to shove his whole head in the pouch, before realizing that the food was no longer there, and he turned his attention to Geralt’s hands instead, climbing up into his lap and yipping insistently at his newfound provider. No longer afraid of the witcher, the puppies now barked and growled as they fought for control of his lap, howling their squeaky howls and nipping at his gloves in a bold attempt to pry the not-yet-broken-up spoils free. Geralt grinned as he watched them play, knowing he was losing precious sunlight to this endeavour, but he found he had less concern for that than he normally would have, somehow.

“You’ve earned their trust quickly,” Berem remarked, chuckling at the observation.

“They’re hungry,” Geralt said, petting back the soft ears of one pup, before offering her another piece of dried meat to take. The pup snapped eagerly at the meat, yanking it hastily from Geralt’s fingers, before she leaped back again with a high-pitched growl, too young and proud to acknowledge how small she was in comparison to the witcher.

Berem huffed at the dismissal, reaching out a clawed hand to scratch lightly under the chin of one of the pups. In response, the pup yipped fiercely, before flipping over in the dirt and wriggling on his back, kicking his little furry feet. “You give yourself no credit,” Berem informed him, scratching lightly at the playful pup’s exposed belly. “You have an empathy not often seen in your kind. You mustn’t allow yourself to take that for granted.” Finished scratching the pup’s tummy, Berem retrieved his hand to his lap again, watching as the pups began to chase one another around the den, letting out a low chuckle as one tried to bury itself in Geralt’s lap.

“Let me help you,” the werewolf suddenly said, looking up at the witcher again, his golden eyes now determined; he was solemn this time, resolute, ready to fight whatever lay up ahead. His demeanour had changed at the sight of the pups, as if something inside him had been stirred – perhaps by the thought of Geralt slaughtering ten men so one mother wolf and her young could live. Even so, Geralt knew he could not take advantage of this momentary bolster of bravery, and he shook his head, scratching idly behind the ears of the pup now yawning in his lap.

“No,” Geralt answered. “Go back to your wolf dreams, Berem. Save the she-wolf and her cubs. Leave the Bog and take them with you, somewhere far away from this place.” It was a strange command, especially when coming from a witcher and speaking to a werewolf; a witcher more loyal to the code of his Path would have insisted the werewolf be killed, or at the very least be forced to stay in the swamp, as far away from decent civilization as possible. But Berem had done no wrong so far, and from the empathy he had shown for the she-wolf and her cubs, it seemed unlikely he had any intent to do such wrong in the future. Even the severed human ear attached to his head, as gruesome as it was, was not his own doing, being part of the ritual that kept folk in nearby towns terrified of the Crones and loyally tied to the Bog.

The sudden reminder of the ear on Berem’s head was an unsettling one, and Geralt found he could not keep his eyes from returning to it, realizing for the first time the implication of allowing Berem to follow him on his path through the Bog. The ear around his head was undoubtedly charmed with the same magic as the ones the Whispess had wore around her neck, allowing her to hear goings-on throughout the swamp – which meant the Weavess was likely aware of his coming by now. Still, he found he could not be bothered to care whether she knew of his arrival or not. If she did, then she knew retribution for her wicked actions were close at hand – but if not, she would be in for a bloody surprise when he finally arrived on her doorstep.

Picking up the wolf cub from his lap, Geralt handed the squirming pup over to Berem, watching as the werewolf fumbled for a moment to find the most soothing way to hold the tiny creature. The pup took only a moment to adjust, wriggling a bit in Berem’s meaty arms, before she buried her nose in the werewolf’s chest, seeming soothed by the smell of another wolf-like creature. “Find yourself a comely wifewolf,” Geralt told him, watching as the pup settled in against her new protector. “Use what you’ve learned to make a life for yourself. And live. All of you, live.”

Berem hesitated at the command, his whiskers quivering as he blew soft bursts of air through his furry lips, gently petting back the ears of the now-sleeping pup in his arms as he thought of what to say. “Fine,” he finally answered, still only sounding half-sure of his decision. “But… I will take you to the Crone first. It is the least I can do to help the witcher who took on ten men to save one she-wolf.”

“Six,” Geralt corrected him, turning his golden eyes to meet those of the werewolf again. “I killed six. You killed four.”

“Numbers are not important,” Berem returned, sounding a bit impatient. “You took them on before I arrived. Had I not joined you, you would have fought all ten. You were prepared to. Don’t deny your good intentions, witcher.” Looking down at the cub in his arms, he paused, his massive paw stopping halfway through petting it, before he let out a soft, weary-sounding sigh, resting his hand against the pup’s warm back. “Most would not bother,” he added, sadly, shaking his head at the thought. “Especially at the behest of a werewolf. _Especially_ a witcher, most of whom think only to kill.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, realizing Berem had a point, although a somewhat bleak one. It was true that most witchers had no interest in anything that did not offer coin, as that was how witchers were trained – as professionals, offering services in exchange for payment, as any professional might. He had been that way once, before Ciri had taught him that helping others could sometimes be its own reward. The concept was strange, counterintuitive at best, and almost entirely untrue in most instances, but it made Ciri proud of him, a fact which was more valuable to him than all the coin-purses in the Continent.

“We are more alike than you think, witcher,” Berem told him, drawing his attention back again. “You and I.”

“Don’t know about that,” Geralt answered, shortly, shaking his head at the thought. Pushing himself up from the marshy dirt, he brushed the mud from his armoured trousers, not even seeming to realize the irony in bothering when so much of him was still caked in half-dried blood. The two pups still on the ground whined as he straightened, taking a few wary bounds back towards their den, not seeming to have realized just how tall he was when they had only ever seen him sitting. Squatting down slowly to the pups again, Geralt clicked his tongue, holding out a hand towards the female, and after a moment, she began to approach again, sniffling curiously at the offered tips of his fingers. Berem hummed at the sight of the soft-hearted witcher, reaching out to nestle his sleepy pup with her siblings, before holding out a padded finger to rub the top of the first female’s head in an affectionate circle.

“You will see, in time,” Berem told him, chuckling softly, the sound like a warm roll of thunder in his throat.

“Hm,” Geralt answered, standing again. “Take me to the Crone.”

* * *

Had Geralt not had Berem to guide him to the Crone’s hut, he would never have been able to find it on his own. The Weavess’ hut, though sizeable, was nestled nearly imperceptibly in a cradle of yellowing trees and wild canterbury bells, its proud slats blunted and mouldering, seeming to decay before their very eyes in the moisture of the swamp. Geralt took a deep breath as they stared at the vile cottage from the shadow of the treeline, smelling the lingering aroma of every wicked creature that had ever set foot on this cursed ground. He had been anticipating this moment all day, playing it over like a megascope record in his head, but now that he was actually here, he found his feet planted like lead in the mud, unwilling to move from the safety of the trees.

He knew full well what lay ahead of him, just past the grotesquely bright and inviting clusters of bell-flowers, and his heart beat a steady rhythm in his chest as he stared up at the soaring rafters of the Crone’s abode. Despite his resolve, he found himself suddenly drifting into thoughts outside the Bog—thoughts of Yennefer, covering her face with her hair as she tried not to let him see her cry. She always thought she had to be strong for him, to prove she could be his unflinching equal, but he loved her best in her quiet moments, the ones where their eyes met, and nothing needed to be said. He found himself wishing he had told her that, told her how much her love truly meant to him, anything before he had gone – but as always, he had shrugged it off with a joke, teasing her lightly before watching her vanish, perhaps for the last time.

“She’s close,” Berem said, lifting his nose to the wind, though the house before them was more than enough to indicate how close they were. Geralt looked up at the sharp reminder, before looking out towards the hut again, remembering quickly where he was. “Remember—like a hounded wolverine she’ll fight. She could very well kill you.”

“I know,” Geralt answered, only half-listening to the words Berem was saying. Turning his attention to the werewolf again, he paused, his eyes falling once more on the bloodied ear, before he reached down, sliding his sleek beheading-knife from a loop at the back of his belt. Sensing motion from beside him, Berem turned, spotting the knife in the witcher’s hand, and he leapt back a few startled feet towards the swamp, the motion causing a slosh of murky water to splash up over Geralt’s feet. The witcher did not even react as the putrid water soaked through his already-sodden boots, only holding out the knife and reaching with his other hand towards Berem, inviting him to come in closer.

“I-I thought—you said you would let me go!” Berem insisted, his voice high, his ragged chest pumping fiercely. The werewolf’s fear was so potent that Geralt could hear the vibrations of his heart against his barrel chest, but he said nothing, only staring at the wolf, hand outstretched, knife held motionless at his shoulder. “I helped you, witcher,” Berem reminded him, his golden eyes flicking anxiously between Geralt’s face and the knife. “You said there was another way! You said you would allow me to take the she-wolf and leave the swamp!”

“Come here,” Geralt told him, in no mood to answer questions. “Let me get that thing off.”

Berem’s ears flicked at the command, his whiskers quivering as he looked between Geralt and the knife again. “I’ve tried, witcher,” he finally answered, seeming to realize at last what he intended to do with the blade. “She’s enchanted it. It won’t come off. The twine only grows tighter with every attempt.” Geralt frowned at the answer, but said nothing, only returning his knife to his belt with a soft exhale. It did not surprise him that the Crone had enchanted her bauble from being removed so easily, but it still frustrated him to not be able to help the werewolf who had assisted him in his time of need. A werewolf’s skull was a hardy opponent, but the thought of an unbreakable twine slicing through the thick bone and into Berem’s brain was enough to make even the witcher’s usually steadfast expression draw for a moment in revulsion.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t like my help?” Berem asked again, causing Geralt to look up, shaken from the gruesome imagery that had previously filled his mind’s eye. “I can help you to fight. I can do it, witcher.”

“No,” Geralt answered, shortly. “Listen, Berem. Hide out in the Bog for a while. Don’t try to leave yet. Once some time has passed… try to remove the ear again.” At this, Berem’s ears darted back again, his big wet nose flaring with uncertainty, but he said nothing, only listening intently as the witcher laid out his plan. “If it comes off, that means the Crone is dead,” Geralt continued, watching as Berem’s expression began to lift, hardly daring to hope. It was barely enough to notice, given his wolfish features, but there was something particularly expressive about Berem, something that endeared and humanized him in ways the witcher had never seen in other werewolves.

“Once you get the ear off, go to Downwarren under cover of darkness,” Geralt went on. “Leave it in the middle of town, but don’t let anyone see you. Hang it on the notice board. Somewhere it’ll be seen. Doesn’t really matter where, so long as the townfolk will be sure to find it. They’ll know what it means.”

“And if it does not come off?” Berem asked, his voice still hesitant, despite his hope.

Geralt hummed at the thought. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he finally answered, solemnly.

Berem nodded, understanding his instructions, his whiskers giving another tremor as he watched the witcher pass from the cover of the trees, before the werewolf took a step back, his ears giving another anxious flick as he willed himself not to follow. Every sound in the swamp grew deathly silent as Geralt stepped onto the path to the cottage door, feeling the rotten slats of the walkway starting to sink into the mud beneath his feet as he moved. The hut, no longer hidden by the trees, was now entirely visible to his eye – it was a shack, much like Anna Strenger’s had been, but wider and taller, ringed on all sides by greenery. The oversized bell-flowers hugging the sides made the building almost pleasant to behold at first glance, but the animal skulls on wooden stakes ringing the property made it hard to stay deceived for long.

Bones and feathers from various wildlife had been strung around the hut’s perimeter, keeping a watchful vigil, likely more totems fashioned by the Weavess and her sisters for their protection. The cottage loomed gnarled and sinister as Geralt approached, its lofty clocktower shape backlit by a bloody, jaundiced sunset, and as he came in closer, he began to hear the sound of a voice whispering inside his head. It was low at first, but grew with more ferocity, nipping at his ears and causing his blood to run cold; the Weavess’ nasally sneer was just as chilling now as the first time he had heard it, and he clenched his jaw against the sound, drawing his sword as he passed a patch of dried blood on the ground, the smell of it distinctly human. There had clearly been others before him, others who had tried and failed to bring an end to the beast, but he would not allow himself to become one of them, one more sad tale to be told around the campfires of Downwarren.

“Patience, sisters…” the Weavess hissed, her voice burrowing into Geralt’s brain like a feeding tick. He shook his head at the sound, trying to force it out, but he found he had little sway against the Crone’s magic. “I sense him… he comes,” the Weavess keened, this time sounding disturbingly pleased. “You shall yet have his soul… His pain, his icy suffering will be yours… and you will feast on him. Soon, sisters… very soon!”

He should have known the Weavess would sense him coming – she had eyes everywhere in the Bog, and ears besides, with the ear she had tied to Berem’s head her most obvious clue to the witcher’s intentions. Even so, he found he could not be bothered as to whether she knew he was coming or not, and he weighed his sword at his side, watching as the door of the hut began to creak slowly open at his presence. The door was still some ways across the clearing, but its opening sent a gust of warm, wet air to rush over him, clinging to his skin like a coat of monster entrails as the Crone’s scornful voice grew louder all around him. The opening of the door seemed to magnify the sound, escalating in intensity until it was no longer just in his head, but coming from everywhere, assaulting him from all sides, causing him to grit his teeth as it echoed across the Bog to envelop him.

“Fear!” the Weavess howled, the sound pricking at Geralt’s senses like the rake of ragged fingernails across his skull. “So much fear! Fear of what…? Of the unknown? Fear of new life? How are you to take care of a new life when you can barely take care of your own?” Geralt could see the Weavess inside the hut now, standing with her gruesome, misshapen back to the open door, the tatters of her ragged dress sweeping the floor as she tottered like a fleshy crab across the boards. “Doubt!” she shrieked, her voice echoing in the clearing, the sound warped, as if shouted through a mouthful of water. “I can smell it—oh, I can see it! A wolf, frightened of his cub! You can always send your cub to me, wolf—I will take _good_ care of it.”

“Come out!” Geralt demanded, feeling his blood start to boil at the creature’s taunting. He had no idea how the Crone had known about Shani’s child, but he was in no mood to stand around and find out. The Weavess turned as she heard him call for her, her legs and arms seeming to move almost on different axes, and he watched as she began to shuffle towards him out the door, walking nearly sideways as she edged across the clearing to meet him. Her gait was awkward, inhuman and unsettling, her knees spread wide to make room for the heavy burlap sack she carried around her waist, and Geralt felt his stomach turn as he watched the small legs swinging from its tethered mouth, the blackened blood congealing at the bottom a testament to the young lives sacrificed to its depths.

The Weavess’ head jerked as she walked towards him, her gnarled fingers curling and uncurling as she sidled in close, and Geralt could smell the stench of decay and rotten flesh on her as she leaned in, inspecting him with her insectoid eye. He had never been this close to the Crone before – to any of them – and he grimaced as he stared back into the pockmarked pustule of her eye, the buzzing of insects around her growing nearly deafening as she parted her lips, showing her blackened, mossy teeth. “I sense your pain…” the Weavess told him, the sound now coming from her mouth alone, though he could still hear faint whispers of an echo from the Bog around him as she spoke. As he watched, a black fly climbed from her mouth and across her sunken cheek, settling for a moment on her hornet’s-nest eye before taking off with a low buzz, making him nearly want to vomit at the sight.

“I see your fear…” the Weavess jeered, jerking her head to get a better look at his face. Her fetid grin widened as she took a step closer, all but challenging him to take a swing at her with his blade, and as she moved, he began to hear the faint sound of rustling from the Bog all around him. He could hear the sounds of something waking and stirring, drawn instinctively towards the source of the disturbance—the sounds of webbed and clawed feet against the soggy earth, before other telltale sounds began to join a moment later: the gurgling of drowners, the snarling of ghouls, the chilling screech of a water hag. The swamp was alive with hatred, closing in on the hut, but Geralt dared not take his eyes from the Crone, even as his medallion began to hum in warning.

“Look about you!” the Weavess shrieked, gurgling as she stretched out her neck towards him like a bloated snapping turtle. “Feel their hatred? You slaughtered their brethren for a fistful of coin. They would see you suffer, while you’ve lost your claws, wolf.” Geralt gritted his teeth at the insult, willing his feet to stay planted as she took another step closer, her jowls quivering as another black fly crawled across her hooked nose and disappeared into her ear. “You’ve gone soft, wolf,” she jeered, baring her rotten teeth at the witcher. “Soft! Toothless! The prophecies do not lie… you cannot survive this struggle.”

“Prophecies have been wrong before,” Geralt answered, tightening his grip on his sword. He could hear the bog creatures coming closer, but he kept his gaze fixed on the Crone, not letting her out of his sight. Ciri had already made the mistake of turning away from her prematurely once, and he was not about to allow her to escape so easily again.

“No,” the Weavess jeered, her head jerking like a wasp’s. “You are afraid. You feel fear.”

Geralt shook his head. “Just here to finish the job,” he answered, before lifting his blade to bring it down across the Weavess’ neck. He did not have time to swing, however, before he found himself suddenly grabbed from behind, a heavy weight latching onto him, ripping at his hair and dragging him back towards the mud. He could hear the gurgling squeal of a drowner behind him as he whipped back an elbow, jabbing it in the ribs, causing the creature to gag for breath as he next reached back a hand to jam it into the monster’s gill-slits. The drowner screeched as the witcher’s gloved fingers rammed brutally into its neck, before he ripped upward with all his might, tearing the gill-slits open along the side of the drowner’s throat. The drowner howled as a spray of blood fountained out of the side of its neck, wheezing for breath as Geralt shook it off, before delivering a stab to its brain that stopped its suffering once and for all.

Looking up from the drowner, Geralt realized that a water hag had run up close in his distraction, its legs spread wide on its crooked hips, burgeoning belly swinging freely past its bare breasts as it swiped out at him with long, deadly claws. The witcher jumped back easily to avoid the attack, holding out a hand to douse the hag with a burst of Igni, and she screeched as her bare skin was singed, slapping her face in an attempt to put out the flames. Taking advantage of her distraction, Geralt moved forward again, swinging his sword to attack, and he heard the cold splatter of intestines hitting the mud as his blade found purchase in her stomach. The hag gave a bone-chilling scream as she tried to hold in her intestines with one massive hand, before using the other to swipe blindly for the witcher as she stumbled towards him across the bloodied mud.

Geralt bared his teeth at the monster, taking another leap back, before coming back with another strike, this time slicing the attacking arm from its shoulder with a single upward swipe, and the hag gave an ear-shattering screech as she watched her arm fly into the air, landing with a muddy _thunk_ behind her. She screamed at the witcher, using her remaining arm to attack as she leapt forward, slashing out at him again, but the instant she let go of her intestines, they began to slide out again, falling to the mud in a gruesome splatter. The hag gave a squawk as she slipped on the longest of them, losing her balance into the mud, and, drawing up his sword again, Geralt wound it back, before slicing through the hag, separating her upper and lower body in two.

The Crone hissed as she watched the water hag collapse into the mud in two pieces, before she rushed forward to claw at the witcher, lashing out with ragged nails at his face and chest, slashing at whatever she could reach. She was fast when she moved in crow form, he realized, and he jumped back, raising his sword to defend from her talons, before swinging out at her in a counterattack, catching her satchel with the tip of his blade. He could hear the bone-chilling rip of the burlap as a tumble of arms and legs spilled out into the mud, and he found himself nearly sick at the sight of the mutilated bodies falling from its depths.

The flesh of what he guessed had once been three children was rotten, blackened, and picked apart, with two of them nothing more than disembodied limbs, though the one that still had his head and torso seemed significantly less lucky in that regard. His eyes had been hollowed out, his fingers devoured until only palms remained, and the legs that had stuck out from the top of the bag had been his, riddled with gnaw-marks where she had idly chewed on him. Geralt fought back the urge to vomit as he looked up at the Crone again, hearing as she shrieked, growling an almost ghoul-like growl as she lashed out at him again in anger. He blocked her again with his sword, before stabbing out towards her, hoping to run her through, but the Crone was too fast for him, dissipating into a flock of crows and flapping across the clearing to safety.

Geralt turned to follow her, but was stopped as he felt something grab onto him from behind again, this time digging its claws into his armour and biting down hard on his neck. The rot-coated needles latched tightly to his throat as the smell of drowner assaulted his senses, and he gave a sharp shout, reaching back behind him to grab the beast by its slippery neck. He made sure to avoid the drowner’s poisoned spines as he flipped it over his shoulder and into the mud, and the drowner screeched as it fought to right itself, only to have his sword driven through its heart, stilling its struggling.

“Fucking thing,” Geralt spat, pressing a hand to his neck to see how deeply the drowner had bitten him; it was a bad bite, but nowhere as bad as some he had fought through easily before. Looking up towards the Crone again, Geralt swore, realizing she was now several paces away, and he picked up his blade, rushing forward to take another swing at her. He cut through the air with a mighty slice, tearing the edge of her sleeve as she raised an arm to defend herself, earning an inhuman hiss from the beast as she lashed back with hooked, blackened nails. The Weavess gurgled deep in her chest, before throwing out her hands, dissipating once more into a burst of crows, cawing and clawing at his face and neck as they took off towards the far side of the clearing again.

Geralt shielded his eyes from the corvids’ claws, gritting his teeth as the musky smell of death assaulted him, before he whipped around to face the Crone again, feeling a muscle twitch in his jaw at the dirty trick. “Come back and fight, you bitch,” he hissed, starting again across the clearing towards her, only to this time be pulled back from both sides, with a water hag grabbing one arm and a ghoul sinking its teeth into the other. The ghoul’s bite sent a shock through his arm, making him drop his sword as the venom raced through him, and he let out a shout, pulling back on his arm, only to have the hag yank back just as roughly from her end. Her long fingers were wrapped around his forearm like a vice, and she shrieked with glee as she dragged him down to the mud, seeming to be trying to rip him in half with ample help from the ghoul.

Geralt felt his head bounce off the dirt as he fell, taking a split second to realize he had barely missed hitting a sharp rock, before he thrashed as the hag pounced on top of him, pinning him, sitting on his chest and using her claws to slash him open from cheek to collar-bone. He howled in pain as her claws raked his skin, and she shrieked in delight as she slashed him again, this time tearing through the mail on his chest as if slicing a hot knife through butter. The witcher kicked helplessly at the grappling monsters, trying in vain to shake them off, only to next feel as something grabbed hold of his leg, sinking the same needle-like teeth as before deep into his calf.

Geralt gritted his teeth as he felt the combined weight of the monsters burgeoning on top of him, seeing spots start to form in his eyes from blood loss, before he suddenly remembered what Yennefer had said. She had barely had time to be his wife just yet, but the same was true the other way around, he realized. He had barely had time to be her husband yet either – and he was not about to let some drowner to be what prevented him from coming home to her.

Shaking the darkness from his vision, Geralt balled his free hand into a fist at his side, and he thrashed, kicking out at the drowner with his free leg, before turning to deliver a bone-shattering punch to the face of the ghoul still chewing on his arm. The ghoul gave a shriek of pain as it pulled its jaws free from his arm with some missing teeth, and the witcher grabbed for his dropped sword, snatching it up and driving it up through the face of the water hag above him. The hag screamed as the sword pierced her brain, before her screams turned instead to a dying gurgle, her eyes rolling back in her skull as black fluid began to dribble down the blade onto the witcher’s chest. Geralt braced his arms as she collapsed on top of him, catching her body before her dead weight could crush him, and he let out a grunt as he pushed it forward again, sending it flying back towards the drowner still attached to his leg.

The drowner jumped back as the corpse flew towards it, hissing in surprise at the interruption, and Geralt pulled his legs back from the monster’s reach, before pushing himself shakily to his feet again and swinging his sword at the drowner’s head. The creature’s head separated easily from its body, flung across the dell to land with a satisfying splatter, and the witcher stumbled forward, turning next to slice the head of the wounded ghoul in two. The ghoul went down with a whine, its head split nearly evenly down the middle, the two halves of its tongue still wriggling in its skull as it bled out crimson on the patchy earth.

Wiping his face with a muddy glove, Geralt turned to find the Weavess’ hut again, shaking a film of black haze from his vision once more as he realized she had moved again, and was now nearly to the door. “No you fucking don’t,” he growled, stabbing his sword into the marshy earth, before he pulled his second blade from his back, winding back and throwing it forward with all his might.

He could hear the satisfying keen of the Crone as the meteorite blade hit its mark, and he watched as she collapsed forward onto the floor, her bony legs and arms splayed helplessly as she shrieked in agony. Three dusky crows burst from the gash on her back as she fell, flapping in a wounded panic, but they did not manage to get more than a few paces from the door before they fell to the mud of the swamp, dead. Pulling his silver sword from the mud, Geralt started for the hut, making sure to step on every dead crow, watching as the Weavess struggled in the doorway, clawing at the floorboards in a vain attempt to right herself. She was still alive, but wounded, with his sword pierced through her from spine to breast, and he grabbed the abomination by her shoulder as he reached her, turning her over to splay her roughly on her back.

Geralt grimaced as he watched blackish blood and other unknown fluids start to dribble down her face from her shrivelled lips, and she bared her mossy teeth as she wheezed, their jagged edges cracked, brittle and rotten as the logs of her house. The Weavess hissed as she stared up at the witcher, spraying a film of black blood as she spat up at him in defiance, but Geralt only steeled his lips at the insult, wiping his face again with a solemn pass of his glove. “Zireael… that little _whore_,” the Weavess gasped, another spurt of what looked like swamp water bubbling from her lips. “Her accursed blood… She slew my sisters! I am alone – ‘tis your doing!”

She coughed, and Geralt watched as two black flies crawled from the darkness at the back of her throat, lighting for a moment on her ragged hat before taking off into the rafters. “Fear devours you, witcher,” the Crone choked, staring up at him with her revolting eye, and Geralt could see, now that he was close enough, that each one had a small black pupil, moving independently like a nightmare chameleon. “Like maggots devour a corpse! Your flesh, cured with toxins… sweet with pain. Do you wish to die, witcher? Do you wish your suffering to end?”

Geralt made a face, finding it ironic that the dying Crone was still trying to threaten him, but he shook his head, ignoring the sounds of another wave of monsters closing in from the depths of the Bog. “Didn’t come here to die,” he answered. “Came to get Ciri’s medallion you stole.”

“No…” the Crone hissed, trying to raise a shaking hand to point, only to have it fall back to the floor again. “There is more. Though you lie to yourself, witcher, there is more. I see… you would rather face death than face your wife. Rather than face the mistakes you made… face how you’ve hurt her, so terribly.” She wheezed, the sound rattling in her chest, before she coughed again, spraying black blood over her chin. “You would rather lie, and die lying,” she told him, baring her blackened teeth again as she spoke. “Die, rather than face the truth of how you failed her… her, and Zireael, and the young doctor… failed them all with the decisions you made. Decisions you could have avoided.”

Geralt gritted his teeth as the taunting continued, but he said nothing, only lifting his silver blade, tilting it into the marshy light so the Crone could see what was coming. The Crone wheezed in fright as she saw the blade, her abscessed tongue jutting out over her blackened lips, and she rocked in his grasp, trying her hardest to wrest free from the hand still pinning her to the floor. “Sisters… save me…!” she croaked, gurgling again as blood filled her throat, spilling over her lips as she begged.

“No one’s gonna save you,” Geralt growled, coldly. “Gonna get what you deserve.”

Pinning her to the floor with his boot, the witcher stood, raising his silver sword, hearing as one last scream passed her rancid lips before he drove the blade through her mouth and out the back of her skull. He felt the solid _thunk_ of the blade against the floorboards, driven into the wood until he was sure it stuck, before listening as the Crone gave one last rattle, a horrible croaking sound, followed by blessed silence.

He could smell the foul stench of her bodily fluids leaking out as he leaned on his sword to catch his breath, but he lifted his head quickly, realizing he did not have time to waste until his task was complete. Dropping to his knees, he rummaged through the Weavess’ robes, checking every pouch and pocket for the medallion, but he could not find the trophy anywhere on her, and he looked up, realizing she must had hidden it somewhere in her hut. “Fuck,” he hissed, turning towards the door as the sound of approaching monsters began to reach his ears again – their slapping footfalls, their hisses and screams, the stench of their fishy-smelling skin on the breeze. The witcher growled in frustration as he jumped to his feet again, fighting dizziness as he yanked his swords from the Crone’s face and belly, before he kicked the bloated corpse out of the way of the door, slamming it quickly closed against the approaching hoard.

He had managed to catch a glimpse out the door as he closed it, and he realized the second wave would be far worse than the first – he had killed their protector, their patron, their queen, and now they were going to make him pay for it. Spotting a bookcase across the hut, he rushed over to it, dragging it out from the wall, before pushing it in front of the door just as something heavy smashed against it, splintering the wood. Geralt jumped back at the sound, knowing that even that would not hold the beasts for long; monsters were crafty, and many were deathly strong, but if it bought him time to find the medallion, that was all that mattered.

Looking around the hut again, he leapt forward, starting to search frantically for the stolen medallion once more, pushing over table-settings and dumping out cabinets in his wild search for the necklace. He shouted in anger as he turned up empty, before dropping to his knees in desperation, feeling the wood crack and splinter between his fingers as he ripped up the floorboards in his frantic search. He wondered how long it would take before some other creature broke through the wall just as easily – the hut was nearly rotting on its supports, and he heard it give a fatal creak and rustle as something began to climb up its sides. Another loud _whump_ on the door made him look up again, watching as the bookcase rocked precariously on its feet, barely holding its ground as the flimsy door splintered behind it from the impact of the ghoul’s body.

Geralt could feel a cold chill on the back of his neck as the sound of hissing and screeching seeped through the rotting walls, and he growled as he pushed himself to his feet again, feeling lightheaded once more as blood poured down his chest from his neck-wounds. “Shit,” he swore, throwing open the clay oven to check inside, only to be met with the stench of burned and rotten flesh, making him nearly gag as he closed the furnace again to stanch the terrible odour. Looking up in frustration to the racks above the furnace, he found his eyes suddenly drawn a lock-box on one of the shelves, tucked away among the pots of alchemical herbs where he supposed she thought no one would think to look for it. Standing a bit too quickly again, he grabbed the lock-box off the shelf, trying for a moment to pry it open before he finally turned, smashing it against the floor in frustration.

The box shattered easily as it hit the floor, its pieces scattering across the boards in splintered shards, and Geralt kicked the biggest of the pieces aside, before bending down to fish the prized necklace from the pile of debris. He brushed the medallion gently as he picked it up, clearing its surface of residue, before he let out a long breath, kissing the silver face and draping the chain around his neck, not wanting to lose it again. Vesemir’s medallion was different from his own – a bit rounder, more worn on its face, the teeth of the wolf a bit more blunted, the mark of a necklace well worn and well loved, a treasure for any who valued such things.

Gripping the medallion tightly in his fist, Geralt reached next into his belt pouch for the xenovox, pulling it out just as another snarling form slapped a bloody hand against one of the hut’s dirty windows. “Yen?” he called, tilting the xenovox so he was speaking into the side furthest from the string; he had no idea how these things worked, having only used one once to communicate with Keira Metz on an unwanted mission. “Yen, you gotta open a portal,” he insisted. “Need you to get me out of here, NOW.”

The xenovox hummed, letting out a low buzz, and Geralt wondered if he might have used the damn thing wrong – before the sound of Yennefer’s voice crackled through, fuzzy and distorted with static. “What?” Yennefer asked, her concern clear despite the poor connection. “Geralt? I thought you hated portals—”

“I do,” Geralt answered, gritting his teeth. “But I still need you to open one and get me out of here!” As he spoke, the door gave another loud _crash_, causing the bookcase to flip forward onto its face, and he swore as he looked up towards the splintering door, hearing the sound of multiple monsters gathering just outside it. He could see their ugly faces plastered in the windows, their rancid breath fogging the dirty glass, and he wondered if they knew how easily they could break it, or if it was so filthy it simply looked like part of the wood from outside.

“Geralt, where are you?” Yennefer insisted, her voice crackling in and out with the static. “What is that sound? I can’t open a portal if I don’t know where you a—” Her voice was cut short by the sound of something slamming itself against the side of the hut, something much larger than a ghoul, causing a rain of silt and straw to filter down from the rafters into his hair. Geralt clenched his teeth at the sound, hearing the low bugle of a massive creature from outside, and he crouched down low to the floor, pressing a hand to his bleeding neck as the hut began to shake around him.

“No time to explain,” he hissed. “Just—” But he stopped as another unwelcome sound caught his attention, and he felt his heart skip a beat, listening as a shuffling and snarling began to echo down the blackened shaft of the chimney. He had heard the monsters get up on the roof, but he had completely forgotten to block the flue, and he cursed his distracted mind as he pulled up the xenovox again, nearly pressing it to his lips as he looked around for something to use. “Just open a portal and get me _out_ of here!” he insisted, wondering for a moment if he could fit the Crone’s corpse up the chimney – but there were too many factors, too much at stake, and he was not sure he could drag that much weight with so much blood already lost.

“There’s no need to shout,” Yennefer returned, affronted. “It’s not that easy, you know—”

“JUST DO IT!”

Another pause followed from Yennefer’s end as the weight of the situation seemed to hit her at last, and she took a sharp breath, hesitating a moment to consider before answering again. “Alright, I suppose—” She stopped, and Geralt could almost see her sucking her lip in worry. “I can cast a discerning spell using the link from the xenovoxes,” she suggested after another moment. “Some kind of twin positioning spell, with this one determining the location of its counterpart through sustained connection. I don’t know how quickly I can complete the spell, as it would be entirely provisional, but…” She went silent again, before letting out an anxious huff. “How long do you think you have?” she asked.

“Not long,” Geralt answered, turning and spotting the tapestry from Anna Strenger’s hut hanging against the wall. He had missed it before, too distracted by the monsters outside, but now he rushed forward to grab it, ripping it hastily from its perch. The weaving was heavy, and he felt both medallions give a strong vibration against his chest as he dragged it across the floor, but he ignored the unsettling sensation as he shoved the tapestry unceremoniously up inside the blackened flue. He panted as he took a step back, feeling dizziness starting to take over again, and he blinked a dark haze from his vision, forcing himself to stay conscious until help could arrive. He could count on Yennefer, he told himself – she had never let him down, and he had no reason to doubt her – but the sound of the massive creature bellowing from outside made him swallow hard, wondering if he was being foolish.

Yennefer had never let him down, that was true – but she had never been forced to deal with a situation like this before, a situation that tested the utmost limits of her skills, coming down to a race against the forces of nature. Lifting the xenovox to his lips again, Geralt hesitated, hearing the Weavess’ vicious last words echoing in his head: he had come here to escape his own failings, to die rather than face how he had treated Yennefer. Letting out a hard sigh, he pressed the xenovox to his lips, closing his eyes as he concentrated on the device, using his witcher training to tune out the sounds of the monsters howling outside.

“Yen…” he said, softly. “In case I don’t get out of this… just want you to know, I love you. Loved you since the first time I saw you. And… I’m sorry. For everything I did to you.” Another loud _thud_ from the side of the house sent the jars of alchemy ingredients rolling, and Geralt winced as he heard them shatter to the floor as another rain of silt filtered down from the patchy ceiling. He could hear something moving inside the chimney now, something large, with claws that scraped heavily against the sides of the flue, and he heard the soft scratching of the bundled tapestry being pushed down, the crackling of soot being chipped into the fireplace like thunder in his ears.

“Yen—” Geralt started to say again, only to be quickly interrupted by the xenovox giving a loud squeal, and he moved the communicator away from his face, wincing as the sound drilled his honed senses like an icepick.

“Geralt… I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m a bit busy at the moment to talk about this…!” Yennefer finally answered, her voice crackling even more patchily than before through the magical interference.

Geralt let out a breath as she answered, relieved she had heard him, but a bit disappointed by the response. “I know,” he told her. “But… just need you to know—” But he did not get a chance to finish before the sound of shattering glass caused him to jump, and he turned to look, watching as a massive pronged antler burst through the hut’s dirty window. The fiend outside howled angrily as it rattled the window-frame, its mesmeric third eye wide and bloodshot as it stared in through the broken glass; Geralt could hear its second antler pounding the side of the house, with the beast fighting to free itself or break inside, whichever came first. Taking a step back, he shielded his eyes, watching as the rotten wood splintered with the impact, punctured through by the second set of the monster’s mighty prongs.

The fiend gave a howl as its antlers stuck, pulling back on both racks now wedged in the frame, the creaking of the structure growing nearly deafening in Geralt’s ears as the house began to shudder and strain. He realized he was going to die here – that wall would come down, and the support beams with it, and if he did not die from the hut collapsing on top of him, he would certainly die from the monsters rushing in to ambush him. Without the walls to protect him, he was exposed, bleeding and barely conscious, and with an angered fiend in their numbers, the monsters would easily overpower him without much of a fight.

He could feel his knees growing weak beneath him, though it was hard to tell what was causing it now; blood loss was his first, most obvious thought, though he realized that was not the only thing causing his heart to beat faster. The thought of death had never frightened him before, but he had had much less to lose back then – he had Yennefer now, and Shani’s child on the way, and friends like Dandelion who needed him to come home. He had Ciri, who would never know what happened to him after he left Vizima so abruptly. He had Regis, who needed his support in a time when even Regis did not know what to say.

A loud _crack_ interrupted his train of thought, and he turned, watching in horror as the nearest support beam began to fracture, a long, dark ribbon spiderwebbing up its length as it began to bend towards the fiend’s mighty pull. A moment later, the sound of reality being torn by its threads made him jump nearly out of his skin, the rumbling and humming of a point of great magical focus all but deafening him in its unexpected closeness. He had heard portals opening near him before, but he had never been as surprised by them as he was by this one, and he stared at the misshapen oval in a slight daze, feeling the warm, sucking breeze whipping at his bloodied hair.

“THE PORTAL!” Yennefer’s voice was nearly unintelligible through the static of the xenovox, but Geralt shook his head at the sobering sound, clearing the haze from his mind as he was pulled quickly back to reality. He turned, staring into the portal again, gritting his teeth as he prepared to jump through, already dreading the sensation of formlessness and the mighty pull of the void as soon as he stepped inside. It was nothing compared to the feeling of being ripped limb from limb by monsters, he was sure, but he still found his feet resisting his brain as he willed himself to step forward and escape.

As he stared at the portal, he heard another loud _crash_, and he looked over to see three long, clawed arms jutting through a hole in the door, lashing and clambering to claw their way through the brittle wood as the head of a water hag shoved its way through as well, baring its grisly teeth. “_QUICKLY, GERALT!_” Yennefer shouted, her voice pushing his legs to move in ways his own mind could not. “I can’t hold it open much longer—this hybridized locating and retrieval spell is very unstable as it is!”

“Fuck, I hate portals,” Geralt growled, before closing his eyes and jumping through, hearing the sound of the support beam snapping in half just as the portal sealed tightly behind him. He could feel himself being pulled through space and time by the vortex, the sensation much longer and bumpier than he was used to, likely due to the spell having been improvised on the spot – but he soon found his path opening up again, dispelling him through to the other side, and he stumbled to gain his balance as he found his feet once more on the soft carpeted floor of Corvo Bianco’s day-room. It did not take long for his feet to fail him, and he felt his knees give out beneath him almost immediately, sending him toppling to the floor as the soft sunlit red of the furniture swam in his vision.

He coughed, feeling the urge to vomit, but found he did not have the strength to dispel anything, and he groaned as the sound of muffled footfalls came to find him, before someone turned him onto his back, pulling his head into a soft, warm lap. It was Shani’s lap, he realized, looking up at her through lashes crusted with blood, and as soon as he did, he felt Vesemir’s medallion give a hum against his chest. He could feel Shani’s hands on his wounds, hovering worriedly over the bite from the drowner, before next moving to inspect the long, ragged claw-marks where the water hag had mauled him from cheek to collar-bone.

“Shani,” Geralt coughed, wetting his lips. “Where’s… where’s—”

“I’m here, Geralt.” Yennefer knelt down beside him, taking his hand from his side, before pulling his glove off and raising his knuckles to her lips for a soft, relieved kiss. He could feel her lips trembling against his skin, her warm breath shuddering as she tried not to cry; she looked exhausted, likely from the amount of magic she had had to pour into her improvised spell, he realized, and he groaned again, reaching up with his free hand to slide Vesemir’s medallion from around his neck. He could feel the wolf’s head trembling faintly in his palm still as he held it out towards Yennefer, and he watched the surprised look in her eyes as she accepted the necklace from his bloody hand, before she looked up at him again, just as stunned, as if amazed he had managed to find it.

“One… down,” Geralt told her, letting out another soft cough as he watched her press it protectively to her chest. Then, home and safe at last, he closed his eyes, succumbing to warm darkness in Shani’s arms.


	16. Marigold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard chapter to write, and ended up being a lot longer than anticipated. I wanted to cut it to a more readable length, but it did not flow as well being cut short. I hope it's just as good this way, and not too long to still be enjoyable! I hope everyone had (or is having) a wonderful winter holiday, and that you all have a peaceful new year!

Shani’s washcloth was cool against Geralt’s forehead, and he opened his eyes to look up at her, watching her work with weary interest as she ran the moist rag across his face and neck. She looked tired, he noticed; faint dark circles had formed under her hazel eyes, and her cheeks seemed puffier than usual, a stark contrast to her thin, pale wrists and throat. She was getting less sleep than she needed, he realized, likely due in part to having to look after him like this, though he figured it was probably also difficult to sleep with a living thing growing inside her.

The wording of his thoughts made him grimace, thankful he had had the sense not to say them out loud, and his expression made Shani pause, lifting her hand to blink down at him in surprise. “Did I touch something?” she asked, glancing down over his dressings. “Pretty sure I bandaged everything thoroughly. Try not to move around too much, even so. Some of these injuries came dangerously close.” Geralt frowned at the bleak observation, lifting his arm to examine his freshly-wrapped bandages, noting the spots of dried blood in the shape of a ghoul’s maw on his forearm. “That one nearly severed your ulnar nerve,” Shani told him, nodding towards the broken skin. “Lucky your glove had those spikes to stop it, or you might’ve lost your ability to hold a sword with that hand.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, letting his hand fall back to his side at the thought. “Wouldn’t be much good without my sword arm. Too old to learn any new skills at this point.”

Shani gave a soft chuckle at his teasing, brushing a stray lock of hair from his golden eyes. “You could take up whittling while you’re on bedrest,” she suggested. “Yennefer’s learning how to sew. You could open a shop together.” Setting the damp washcloth aside, she reached next for a vial of Swallow on the nightstand, shaking it up before uncorking it and handing it over for Geralt to drink. The nightstand was littered with care items, he noticed – a bowl of warm water, several medicine bottles, and among them, Vesemir’s medallion, glinting unassumingly in the light of the bedside candle. Geralt faltered at the sight of the necklace, feeling his heart speed up at the memory of its retrieval, before he quickly pushed the thought from his mind again, bringing the vial of Swallow to his lips.

“Thankfully there were no broken bones this time,” Shani observed, watching as he downed the potion in a hearty gulp. “Had to do some surgery on your neck, but… not the worst I’ve had to do. Especially on you.”

“Shouldn’t take too long to heal,” Geralt agreed, handing the vial back to Shani and wetting his lips. Swallow was the mildest of his witcher potions, but it always left a strange, bland taste in his mouth, even so. “Witchers heal fast. Couple bites won’t hurt. Be back on my feet and killing monsters in no time.”

Shani huffed at his bold assessment, setting the empty vial aside to rest her hand on her stomach instead. “Witchers _do_ heal faster than most,” she agreed, looking over at him with a pointed stare. “But whatever bit you this time barely missed your carotid artery. You’ll stay in bed until your throat scabs over, witcher or not.”

Geralt paused at her commanding tone, before a small, fond grin began to creep across his face. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, nodding in agreement. “You’re the doc here, after all.”

Shani smirked, before leaning down over him to press a soft kiss against his forehead, filling his senses with the smell of lavender and thyme as she brushed her gentle fingers over his bandages. He could feel the stiff gauze across his face and neck, heavy where she had applied salve and disinfectants, with wraps banding around his chest, arm, and leg where the creatures of the swamp had tried to drag him down. It amused him to think that every part of his body had been subjected to Shani’s bandages by now, and he could not help grinning at the strange realization, even as he felt the doctor rest her forehead against his shoulder with a sigh.

It was not a romantic gesture, but there was something endearingly vulnerable about it, even so, and Geralt paused for a moment, unsure what to do, before he finally lifted a hand, resting it reassuringly against the back of her head. “You don’t have to keep taking such dangerous jobs,” Shani spoke after a moment, her voice muffled against his chest. The statement caught Geralt by surprise, but he said nothing, only letting her continue until she finished. “The clinic is all but set up,” Shani added, nestling her face into his collar-bone. “I can work, Geralt. I can earn money, too. It doesn’t always have to fall to you and Yennefer.”

Geralt frowned, realizing with a start that Shani was still in the dark on several things – he had never gotten around to telling her about the curse, so she still assumed his missions were all in an effort to fund her clinic. He had forgotten to correct her on that when it had come up, as well as on her assumption that the sorceress coming to the house had been her fault; he had not wanted to scare her back then, but it was becoming clear now that he could not keep the truth from her forever. Shani turned her head as he thought in silence, resting her cheek against his chest with another sigh, and Geralt moved his hand over her slender shoulder, pulling her in more warmly against him. She was too good for this, he thought – too good a person to suffer for others’ mistakes – but the idea of telling her she and her baby were in mortal danger was a bit more than he knew how to address right now.

“The baby’s been moving around more lately,” Shani spoke up again after another moment, trying to lift the mood. “Something’s got it all worked up. That, or it might be something to do with…” She trailed off, sucking her lip as she opened her eyes again, staring intently at the wall past Geralt. “I’ve been doing as much research as I can,” she admitted, sounding much more tired than before, and Geralt felt his stomach drop at the sound, at the disappointment in her voice at the mystery of his condition. “I don’t know what’s been going on lately. Maybe it’s been trying to tell me something. Or maybe… the sorceress was right, and I’m…” She trailed off again, before her expression began to fall, her lower lip paling between her anxious teeth.

“Maybe… it’s cruel, you know?” she added, quietly. “Keeping it… when we know so little.”

“No,” Geralt answered, causing Shani to look up at the sound of his voice. “Sorceress wasn’t here because of you or the baby. Sorceress was here because of me.” The last bit was a lie, he realized, but he was still not quite sure how to break the truth to her – she had accepted his story of spiritual possession before, but this was something far more twisted and personal. “Got roped into a… contract, of sorts,” he explained, feeling Shani’s warm breath on his neck as she listened. “Sorceress came here to make sure I took it seriously. Make sure I was still on board.”

Shani’s frown deepened at this new information, before she suddenly gasped, pressing both hands excitedly to her stomach. “The baby’s moving!” she said, giving a soft laugh. “Here, Geralt! Feel! It’s kicking.” Reaching back, she pulled his unbandaged hand over to rest on her stomach, and he faltered as he felt the impact of a tiny foot against his palm – before the rattle of Vesemir’s medallion on the nightstand caused him to look up again a second later, gritting his teeth as he realized that his own medallion still sat motionless against his chest.

He supposed it was possible that Vesemir’s medallion was more honed than his, more sensitive, better tuned to the presence of magic from hundreds of years spent refining on the Path; Vesemir had always seemed more vigilant than his pupil, keener and more observant of his surroundings, so it made some sense that the old Wolf’s medallion might pick up on things that Geralt’s would not. Still, there was something not quite right with that thought, something that sat like a sour stone in the witcher’s stomach, and he frowned as he remembered that Vesemir’s medallion had also gone off the night before when his had not. It had reacted when Shani had pulled his head into her lap, and he looked up at Shani as the memory returned, wondering if she had any idea that the baby she carried might be emitting some form of magical energy.

Geralt felt his mouth twitch at the thought, fighting the urge to say something about it to Shani, before he suddenly realized a glaring flaw in his theory – that an obvious magical source would set off both medallions, not just one. He frowned, wondering now if perhaps it had nothing to do with Shani at all, and if there was something else in the manor causing Vesemir’s medallion to react this way. He turned his head at the unsettling thought, staring intently at the medallion on the nightstand, hoping it might vibrate again and prove his suspicions right – but, as could be expected, it sat quiet now, the wolf’s head still and sleepy in the candlelight, and Geralt let out a frustrated breath, wondering if his weary mind could have made the whole thing up.

“Did you feel it?” Shani asked, causing Geralt to falter, caught between two expressions, before he finally nodded, giving an awkward grunt of confirmation. He hoped his reaction would read to Shani as a man overwhelmed by new emotions – which was not entirely untrue, he realized, as he had never felt a baby kicking in the womb before. He hated that his enjoyment of this moment had been spoiled by something beyond his control, but he still could not keep his mind from straying again, wondering why his medallion had failed to pick up on whatever Vesemir’s had.

It was not the first time his medallion had acted strangely the last few months, and he wondered if it was possible for a medallion to break, or for its sensitivity to become untuned. But the only one who would know about such things would have been Vesemir, Geralt realized, and he frowned at the medallion on the nightstand again, wondering for a moment if he might never have known about this anomaly had he not had the old Wolf’s necklace to tell him. That thought was soon followed by another, an unsettling, almost morbid curiosity, and he found himself wondering, suddenly, if that might not have been part of O’Dimm’s plan all along – but that thought was soon pushed aside as he realized how far-fetched it was to give the demon such credit. O’Dimm only did things for his own advantage, and Geralt could see no benefit for him in this.

All thought of Gaunter O’Dimm disappeared as soon as the sound of the bedroom door opening reached their ears, and Geralt looked up in time to see the handle turn, before watching as Yennefer let herself quietly inside. Just like Shani, she looked incredibly tired, likely from time spent helping with his care, and Geralt watched as she crossed the room towards them, pausing for a moment as she stared at his hand on Shani’s stomach. Shani smiled up at Yennefer as she approached, before slowly starting to push herself up from the bed, using the nightstand to help her to her feet as she gathered her supplies to leave.

“He’s doing much better,” Shani reported, picking up the bowl of water and tucking it into the crook of her arm. “Another week or so on bedrest and he should be fine to get up and move around. I told him he wasn’t allowed to do anything else until his neck wound scabbed over, so don’t let him try to tell you otherwise.”

“Gimme a _little_ credit, doc,” Geralt grinned, letting out a light cough at her teasing.

Shani smiled back at the joke, before turning to look at Yennefer again, waving a hand towards Geralt as she started past the sorceress towards the bedroom door. “He’s all yours,” she said, giving another soft chuckle. “I’ve done all I can, for the moment. I promised Regis I’d help him with some research today, but don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”

“Regis is still here?” Geralt asked, looking up at Yennefer in surprise. Yennefer paused, waiting for the door to close behind Shani, before she slowly began for the bed again, sitting down in the indent where the doctor had just sat and running her hands thoughtfully over the covers. She stared for a moment at the blanket under her, before she finally looked up at Geralt again, looking the world like someone who had come to deliver bad news.

Geralt frowned at her grave expression, wondering if he might have said something wrong, before Yennefer took a deep breath, folding her hands in her lap as she prepared to speak. “What happened out there in the swamp?” she asked, cutting straight to the heart of her question. Geralt faltered at the frankness of her approach, but said nothing, only letting her speak until she was finished. “When I got your communication… I was so afraid,” she added. “I hadn’t expected to hear from you like that.”

“Wasn’t such a big deal,” Geralt shrugged. “Misjudged the number of monsters she could summon. That’s all.”

“It _was_ a big deal,” Yennefer countered, looking up at him again, her gaze firm. “And I doubt you would have said what you did over the xenovox if you didn’t believe you might die out there.” She paused again, clenching her hands in her lap as she pursed her lips in concentration, her already-pale knuckles growing deathly white as she squeezed them between her slender fingers. She looked like a ghost, Geralt thought, with her wan expression, her rigid, anxious posture, so tightly wound he feared she might rebound like a spring at the slightest touch.

“I was honestly afraid I might lose you in that moment,” Yennefer admitted after a while, causing him to look up again, surprised to hear her continue. “Lose you without ever seeing you again… having to listen to you die, while being unable to help you. That’s my worst nightmare, Geralt. I don’t know what I would’ve done had I not had the skill to save you.”

“But you did,” Geralt answered, reaching out to take hold of her hand in her lap. Just as he expected, she jumped at his touch, before looking down, seeming a bit dazed to see his hand resting over hers. “Didn’t doubt you for a second,” he told her, giving her hand a soft, reassuring squeeze. “Got me out of there just fine. Just like I knew you would.”

“Hm,” Yennefer answered, seeming unconvinced, staring down at their hands in her lap for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin, staring instead at a slat in the floor. “Did you mean what you said out there?” she asked, causing Geralt to pause, unsure what she meant. “About… loving me since the first time you saw me, and being sorry for everything you’ve done?”

Geralt blinked at the question, having not expected her to bring it up so soon, or so candidly. “Kinda strapped for time,” he admitted after a while. “Had to use broad strokes, but… yeah. Meant everything. Hopefully be able to elaborate a little more once I’m not… dying, so much.”

Yennefer listened silently as he spoke, staring intently ahead at the painting above his desk, her weary eyes searching every inch of it, as if only noticing it for the first time. Then, reaching out towards the nightstand, she picked up the wolf medallion from the edge, bringing it up to examine its face, her pretty brow furrowing as she considered the worn design. “Why would a demon want Ciri’s medallion?” she asked, her voice distant, as if unaware she was speaking out loud. Geralt frowned at the change of subject, wondering if he had upset her with the topic of his near-death – he would try to bring it up again later, he decided, sometime when she was less on edge, less tired, sometime when he had the proper state of mind to express his thoughts to her more fluently.

“It serves no purpose to anyone but us,” Yennefer added, still staring at the medallion in her hand. “A demon has no need for a witcher medallion. Did he wish you to return it to Ciri?”

“Dunno,” Geralt answered, shrugging again. “Ask him next time I see him. Doubt it has to do with the medallion, itself, though.” It was almost the truth, though he had to resist the urge to ask Yennefer what she had wanted to tell him before – it was not the right time, not when she looked like she had not slept soundly since his arrival back home. Once he was back on his feet, he could ask her about the sensitivity of Vesemir’s medallion, as well as whatever it was about Shani’s baby that had so upset her the last time they spoke.

Yennefer hummed at the thought, staring down at the wolf’s head in her palm, before she set it aside on the nightstand again, leaning down to press a kiss to her husband’s forehead. Geralt breathed in her scent as she leaned over him, feeling the downy brush of her dark hair against his face, until she finally sat up straight again, looking him over with saddened eyes, as if wondering if it might be the last time. He had seen that look from her before, on days filled with melancholy, quiet days after large losses; the look of someone who had seen something pass from vibrance to nothingness in barely a day. She looked like someone mourning, though he was unsure what she was mourning most – the quiet and peace of their marriage before Shani’s arrival, or the thought that she might actually lose him to whatever task came next.

Reaching a bandaged hand to her face, Geralt passed a rough thumb across her cheek, causing her to look up again, surprised at having been caught so lost in thought. “I’m sorry,” Yennefer said, pressing her hand to the back of his. “I was just… thinking about things. About… how things were. Before any of this. Wondering if we’ll ever get back to some semblance of… what we had.”

Geralt thought a moment, taking a deep breath in as he considered how to answer. “Think we can manage that,” he finally said, offering her a reassuring smile.

Yennefer paused, before returning the smile, though Geralt noticed that hers was remarkably wearier, almost forced, and he could not help his own expression from falling a bit as she moved his hand around to her lips to kiss it. “I’ll let you get some rest,” she told him, placing his hand back over his chest. Then, leaning in, she kissed his forehead again, brushing a gentle hand across his cheek, before moving down to press a soft kiss against his lips, letting her mouth linger over his, as if afraid to leave. Geralt savoured the taste of her mouth, the warmth of wine mixed with the sweetness of honey, the smell of lilac and gooseberries falling over him like a blanket as he breathed in her intoxicating scent. It was hard to imagine a life without her, a life where he would never be able to experience this again, and as she pulled away from him, he found his lips cold with the suddenness of her departure.

“Don’t leave,” he begged, taking hold of her hand again and pressing it back to his cheek. “Stay. Things can wait. Stay with me a little while longer.”

Yennefer hesitated at his request, staring down at him in the bed; he noticed her gaze was softer now, less distant than it had been before, and he pressed his lips to her fingertips, feeling the soft brush of her nails against his beard. She held her breath as she watched him, seeming to be counting every second of affection, before she finally let out her breath in a long exhale, leaning in again to press another soft kiss to his lips. “Perhaps things can wait for a little while,” she agreed, unlacing her boots to the floor. Then, curling up in the warmth of his outline, she nestled her head back against his sturdy chest, letting him pull her in close as he drifted back to a fitful sleep.

* * *

The room was still dark when Geralt woke again, the candle still flickering pensively on the nightstand, its wax only slightly lower than before, making him frown at how little sleep he had managed to get. There was nothing around to have woken him – no loud sounds, no sudden movements from Yennefer – but there was something in the air that had alerted him regardless, setting his senses on edge enough to rouse him from his sleep.

Narrowing his eyes against the darkness, he allowed his slitted pupils to dilate, and he scanned the room, before feeling his blood freeze as he noticed a dark figure standing in the corner near the door. He stayed motionless at the sight of the figure, not wanting to let on that he had seen it – but the figure had apparently noticed him wake, as it stepped forward barely moments later, slowly emerging from the shadows to reveal itself in the wan yellow candlelight.

“So sorry to disrupt your sleep,” O’Dimm purred, pressing his hands together as he spoke. “I merely came to check on the status of your tasks. I wasn’t expecting you to have… company.” As he mentioned Yennefer, she gave a soft groan, and Geralt looked down, expecting to see her eyes opening at the sound – but she was still fast asleep, entirely unaware of anything going on that might disrupt her dreams. “Far be it from me to disturb her rest,” O’Dimm added, waving a hand in Yennefer’s direction. “You needn’t worry about her waking. I don’t think she’ll be hearing a thing.”

“What did you do to her?” Geralt hissed, taking hold of Yennefer’s shoulder and giving her a shake, but she only gave another sleepy huff, curling deeper into the covers at his side in response.

“She’s fine, Geralt,” O’Dimm assured him, shaking his head with a chuckle at the witcher’s attempts. “She’s only sleeping, truly. Once we’re done speaking, she’ll be able to wake again.”

Geralt gritted his teeth, hating that he had to take the demon’s word, before he looked up towards O’Dimm again, only to find that the master of mirrors had already moved. He had crossed the room in a silent second, vanishing and reappearing with the grace of a cat, and he now sat cross-legged on the bed beside Geralt, making the witcher nearly jump as he realized how close the demon had gotten. O’Dimm grinned at his reaction, before reaching over the witcher and his wife towards the nightstand, picking up Vesemir’s medallion and holding it up to watch it spin.

“Such a small thing,” he observed, seeming almost mesmerized, his dark eyes locked on the necklace. “But with so much meaning. How incredible that this small trinket should be worth you risking your life.”

Geralt coughed, touching the bandage on his neck to make sure it was still secure. “Did what you asked, O’Dimm,” he rasped, causing the demon to look up at the sound. “Killed the Crone. Retrieved the medallion. Just leave it. Worth nothing to you.”

“You don’t think so?” O’Dimm asked, smirking. “I think you’d be surprised what has worth to me.” He chuckled, but did as he was told, setting the medallion aside on the nightstand again, before he looked up at the witcher once more, fixing him with an unnerving, unblinking stare.

It had never occurred to Geralt to look too closely at O’Dimm before, but now he found he had little choice, with the demon sitting so close he could see every stray, scruffy whisker on his unremarkable face; he wondered if O’Dimm had chosen this form, or if he had come into existence by some other means, some higher power which had determined a result so nondescript as to pass for any common man on the street. It was a clever trick, and a trap even Geralt, himself had fallen into on more than one occasion, lured in by the mien of one so ordinary he assumed him to be just one more face in a crowd.

Now that he looked a bit more closely, though, he could see that O’Dimm’s mouth was just a bit too wide, his form just a bit too shapeless, his hands just a bit too performatively worn. He was a sadistic puppet of an everyday man, a masquerade made to inspire confidence, but there was something just calculated enough about him to show the true devil through the guise he so skilfully wore.

“So you’ve finished your first task,” O’Dimm observed, drawing Geralt sharply back to their conversation. “Which begs the question… how will you complete your second? _Surely_ you wouldn’t have rushed right in, with no consideration where you might go from here.” He smirked at the thought, folding his hands together and resting them on his crossed ankles as he stared at the witcher. “I seem to remember Dandelion mentioning something… something about a son, I believe,” he added after another moment. “A strapping young lad, about ten years old. Perhaps there’s something you could look into there? Not perfectly-formed as a candidate, of course, but potentially… witcher_-shaped_.”

“Not conscripting Dandelion’s son,” Geralt snapped, feeling his heart beat faster at the suggestion. He had almost forgotten about Dandelion’s bastard, among other things discussed that boozy night, but the fact that O’Dimm knew about the boy made Geralt suddenly fear for the child’s safety.

O’Dimm shrugged, seeming unfazed that his idea had been shot down so quickly. “Your choice, witcher,” he returned. “It was only a suggestion, after all. However, time_ is_ of the essence. You may not have the leisure of choice for very long, if you take too long to decide.”

Geralt frowned at the bleak reminder, reaching up to cover his mouth as he coughed again. “You and your time…” he growled, wiping his beard with the back of his wrist.

O’Dimm’s grin widened at the observation. “Yes,” he agreed. “After all, time is all we have. Though too often, it’s the one thing we lack. Isn’t it strange how that works?”

“I have a question about that,” Geralt said, letting his hand fall back to his blankets. He wondered if it was a foolish risk to ask, even if the question was purely hypothetical; the last thing he wanted was to get caught up in a second contract, but he found he could not turn away from the opportunity to learn something he had wondered about for so long.

“I have an answer,” O’Dimm returned, waiting eagerly for the witcher to continue.

Geralt faltered, feeling his hands grip subconsciously into his sheets as he readied himself to speak again. “Seen you stop time,” he said after a moment, making sure to choose his words carefully. “Seen you bend it to your will. Warp it. Push it forward. Can’t help but wonder… can you also turn it back?”

O’Dimm’s cattish grin curled at the question, seeming entirely amused at having been asked. “Why, Geralt,” he said, his voice almost giddy with false scolding. “Is there some reason you’d want to turn back time?”

“No,” Geralt answered, quickly shaking his head. “Just seeing how fucked I am, getting into a contract with you.”

O’Dimm chuckled, taking a deep breath as his eyes traced the ceiling in a musing arc. “I suppose you’ve earned an answer,” he agreed after a moment. “Though I still question your motives in asking. In the simplest terms… what exists will always exist, somewhere. That’s just the way things are. Everything that will happen has already happened – it’s only a question of whether it will happen in _this_ reality.” Picking up his spoon, he held out a finger towards the witcher, balancing the spoon along its narrow edge, watching as the utensil rocked precariously for a moment before stilling in perfect balance. Geralt frowned as he watched the display, wondering what point O’Dimm was trying to make, before he looked up into the demon’s face again, waiting for the inevitable explanation.

“Time is nonlinear and divergent,” O’Dimm continued, staring intently at the spoon on his finger. “The actions we take can change the future, of course… as can those we choose not to take. But no matter what path we choose in this timeline, the opposite will always exist somewhere. The future you seek may be in this reality…” He paused, watching the spoon as it began to tip forward, looping around to balance just as perfectly on the underside of his finger. “…Or it may not,” he finished, looking up at Geralt again. “Only the actions we take in this reality will tell.”

“‘This reality’?” Geralt repeated, narrowing his eyes at the unsettling phrase. “You’re saying other timelines exist? In addition to other worlds?”

“Honestly, Geralt,” O’Dimm chuckled, not bothering to watch the spoon as it rounded his finger to the top again. “Is it really so hard to believe that alternate versions of our timeline exist? You’ve experienced hydromancy and prophetic visions from magic-users before, of course – glimpses into the future, which you trusted enough to make decisions based on.” He smiled, bouncing the spoon into the air and catching it deftly by the handle, before giving it a pleased little wave, resting the head against his opposite palm. “You think just because you prevented it from happening in this reality, there’s no other reality where you didn’t succeed?” he asked. “Where, then, did the visions come from, if not from a reality where they’ve already occurred?”

“So there’s no such thing as free will?” Geralt insisted, his brow darkening in anger at the thought. “Everything the prophecies say has already happened? Everything is predetermined by destiny?”

“Destiny has nothing to do with it, witcher,” O’Dimm answered, shaking his head. “It’s all a matter of _time_.” Tucking his spoon in his belt again, he gave a small sniff, considering what else to reveal. “Technically, I _could_ send a person back in time to relive a chapter of their life,” he added after another moment. “But what would be the fun in that? It would only create more margin for error in the long run, as you can imagine.”

“You can send people back in time?” Geralt asked, raising his brows in surprise. “But… that’s impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible,” O’Dimm returned, opening his hands to rest them against his knees. “Others less powerful than myself have done it. You remember Alvin—or should I say, Jacques de Aldersberg? The lost little boy who sent himself back in time, only to grow into a famously pro-human radical?” He smirked at the thought, and there was something strange in his expression this time, something notably sinister, something which made the hair on Geralt’s arms prickle with a distinctly icy sensation. “It’s quite simple, really,” O’Dimm continued, ignoring the discomfort on the witcher’s face. “Jacques had no training, no understanding of his power, and that’s where the primary difference lies. With the proper honing, it’s really not all that complicated, if you possess the innate power to control it. No schoolyard sorceress would be able to master such a skill, of course, but Sources, like Alvin, or Ciri…”

He paused, going silent a moment, before his dark eyes lilted to one side, as if debating whether to continue his list. “Regardless,” he said after a while, looking to Geralt again. “I _do_ have the power to do that, of course. But I much prefer… more interesting gambits. Sending people back to certain points, with the opportunity to change one element at a time. One short trip, one thing altered… and on their return, they get to see the long-term repercussions.” Geralt frowned, half-curious what the demon meant, but not wanting to tempt him further – but it seemed O’Dimm needed no temptation, as he soon lifted a finger, tracing a line of smoke in the air between them.

“Call it… a butterfly effect, if you will,” O’Dimm explained, tapping the smoke at various intervals, causing rings to form in its shaky fumes. “Or more simply put, cause and effect. Either way, nobody ever thinks about the long-term consequences of their actions until they’re actually forced to live them.” He smiled as he said this, before waving his hand, causing the end of the smoke line to bubble and burst, the explosion of mist nearly causing Geralt to jump, having not expected such a violent result. O’Dimm chuckled at his startled reaction, before blowing gently on the line of smoke, causing it to breeze towards Geralt’s face as it faded once more into mist.

Geralt coughed as the smoke was blown into his face, before looking up again to find O’Dimm grinning down at him, steepling his fingers in his lap as he waited for the witcher’s attention to return. “You’re a perfect example of that, Geralt,” O’Dimm told him, causing Geralt to frown at the comment. “What long-term repercussions do you think Shani’s child will cause, if you go through with allowing it to live? Think carefully… if you had the chance to stop yourself, to go back in time and walk away from it all… to control your urges instead of enjoying one last night of passion… would you prevent all of this from happening?”

“No,” Geralt answered, not even taking a moment to consider. It was a despicable question, and he resented O’Dimm for asking it. “Shani loves that baby. So do I, and so does Yen. Wouldn’t take that away, no matter what you offered.”

“Me?” O’Dimm asked, pressing a surprised hand to his chest. “I offer nothing, witcher, for it means nothing to me. I only wish to warn you that every action has a consequence, and to consider whether yours will be one you’re willing to live with.” Folding his hands together again, he pressed his index fingers to his lips, grinning his devilish grin as he let the weight of his words sink in. “Just remember what your friend the werewolf said,” he added after another moment, causing Geralt to look up sharply at the reminder. “Even the most innocent of things can turn easily wicked, if left to the wrong environment. Perhaps consider whether the environment you provide is one which would create something… worth nurturing.”

Geralt felt his blood run cold, feeling a muscle twitch in his bandaged jaw; though he hated to admit it, there was something in the demon’s words that latched onto him like a stubborn leech, something which made his mind race with doubt, though he tried his hardest to ignore it. Had he heard that warning before today, he would have dismissed it without a second thought – but after the questions raised by Vesemir’s medallion, he found it harder to convince himself of what was right.

“Told you already,” he answered after a moment, speaking barely above a growl. “Don’t regret it. Won’t regret it. Don’t bring it up again.”

O’Dimm paused at his final answer, allowing a moment of silence to fall between them on the bed, before he took a deep breath, leaning back again and steepling his fingers in thought. “Very well,” he said after a moment, nodding slowly. “I see you’ve made up your mind, then. Just don’t forget that two tasks still remain… and that time _is_ running out.” He smiled again as he said this, but there was something insincere in his expression this time, something strangely stiff and resentful, as if grinning through news he had not wanted to hear. Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone, his weight lifted from the covers beside the witcher, leaving the room once more in eerie silence, as if he had never been there at all.

* * *

The majority of Geralt’s wounds had nearly healed by the end of the week, though he still wore the bandages around his neck to keep Shani’s mind at ease until she cleared him to remove them. He could smell the heady scent of sav following him as he moved through the halls of the manor, but he tried to ignore the medicinal aura that trailed him as he searched each room for Yennefer. He had not had a chance to bring up their conversation over the xenovox with her all week, and he was sure she had been just as busy, as she had not yet brought it up to him again, either. It seemed strange to him that she should leave it untouched, with so few opportunities to hear such deep words from her husband, but he figured she probably had a rational reason for putting off hearing the full confession he had promised.

Yennefer was in the library when Geralt finally found her, and he wondered why he had not thought to check there first; it seemed to be her favourite place these days, surrounded by her books, parchment, and quills. Crossing to her desk as she read, he leaned down, resting his palms against its polished surface, but she did not even seem surprised to see him, only reaching out to tug on his beard with an affectionate smirk. “Nice to see you’re feeling better,” she told him, closing her book to look up at her husband instead. “Though I could smell your sav from fifty yards away. Perhaps next time consider sneaking up without bandages on.”

“Keeping them on for Shani,” Geralt answered, moving around her desk to sit against the edge. “Still hasn’t cleared me for adventuring. Walking around the grounds seems to be okay, though.”

Yennefer nodded, setting her book down to give him her full attention. “That’s very sensible of her,” she agreed, tracing her finger coyly over his knee. “Who knows what nonsense you might get into otherwise? You’re much better off staying here.” She smiled as she said this, starting to slide her hand up the length of his thigh, and he watched as she brushed her fingers teasingly against the lacing of his trousers. “I wish you didn’t have to leave so soon,” she told him, almost purring as her fingers played across his crotch, tracing the outline of his cock against his leg as he bit his lip, feeling it react. It always knew when Yennefer was around, as it never reacted quite so effectively to anyone else, but he steeled his expression at her teasing touch, letting her coax him just a bit more before giving in.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way I could tempt you to stay,” Yennefer cooed, leaning in a bit closer now, letting out a warm breath on his hip that caused him to shudder at the implication. “Just a little while longer.”

“Wish I could,” Geralt answered, taking her hand from his thigh and pressing it to his lips instead. “Gotta do these tasks, though. Sooner I finish them, sooner this’ll all be over.”

Yennefer huffed at the practical answer, leaning back in her chair with a defeated frown. “At least you’re on your second task now,” she agreed. “Though I still don’t think you’ve told me what that is.”

“Make or kill a Wolf School witcher,” Geralt said, making a face at how strange it sounded out loud – that was the easiest way to explain it, but it still sounded deceptively simplistic, put that way. He frowned at the thought, kissing Yennefer’s hand again, before pressing the back of it to his cheek, running his thumb across her dainty palm as he took another moment to consider. “Seems impossible when you think about it,” he added. “Can’t kill Eskel or Lambert, and don’t have time to start from scratch.”

“How will you finish the task then?” Yennefer asked, getting up from her seat to stand with him. She traced a fond finger over the scar on his cheek, before moving her free hand to rest against his back instead, holding him close as she looked up into his face, eager for his attention.

Geralt hummed as she moved in close, sliding his hand around her waist to pull her in as well, before he pressed an attentive kiss to her forehead, resting his chin on top of her silky head. “Well…” he said, letting out a short, gruff sigh. “One other option. Don’t think you’re gonna like it.” He pursed his lips, taking a moment to steel his nerves before explaining; he had been dreading this conversation since the first time the idea had been brought up by Gaunter O’Dimm. Still, he knew there was no way around it, and no sense trying to keep it from Yennefer, and he took a deep breath, feeling his hand grow rigid against her back as he prepared to speak again. “Figure, since Ciri’s already done most of the training… could just put her through the final Trial,” he suggested.

The reaction from Yennefer was instantaneous, her body growing suddenly stiff in his arms, and Geralt lifted his head to look down at her, noting that her face had grown deathly solemn. Her jaw was rigid, her soft lips pursed, her eyes sharp as daggers as she stared up at him, and he felt his gut twist at her countenance, knowing he had touched a nerve he should not have touched.

“You wish to put Ciri through the Trials of the Dreams?” Yennefer insisted, her voice cold as ice as she spoke, and Geralt fell instantly to half-mast, having to choke back a grimace at the unsettling sensation. She was obviously angry, even with her tone so masterfully tempered through years of practice, and he found himself wishing he was not so closely entwined with her in that moment. He remembered times before when he had upset her, times when he had been wrapped in her arms like this, and he remembered too the portal to the middle of the ocean she was so fond of sending him through at those times.

“Figure it’s the best solution,” Geralt answered, hoping his conviction read just as strongly. It was almost the truth, albeit one he had had to talk himself into beforehand. In truth, he hated the thought of putting Ciri through the Trial as much as Yennefer did, but she was the only person he knew who might be able to handle it before it was time for Shani’s baby to be born. Ciri had expressed, once upon a time, her desire to be a full-fledged witcher like Geralt, though he was unsure now if that had been true desire, or merely childhood admiration. He remembered that she had also expressed, more recently, her desire for children at some point, and he knew that taking this Trial would ultimately strip her of that possibility forever.

Yennefer furrowed her brow at the answer, her eyes narrowing, her expression growing steadily colder, and Geralt reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from her shoulder, hoping to alleviate the tension just a bit. “She’s not prepared for that, Geralt,” Yennefer told him, ignoring his weak attempt at affection. “Only three in ten children survive that under normal circumstances, and you haven’t even the proper supplies to perform the rite in its entirety. You don’t know how to carry it out on your own— and Ciri hasn’t been training for it, even if you did. She’s been sitting on a throne for six months, eating a diet of Nilfgaardian food, which is nothing at all like what you feed them to prepare them for the Trials at Kaer Morhen.”

“Wouldn’t be too hard to get her back on the mushrooms,” Geralt observed, trying hard to hold back a smirk at the thought. He knew how little Yennefer would appreciate him finding humour in this solemn moment, but he still could not keep his mind from returning to nights at Kaer Morhen, nights spent listening to Ciri pitch fits, complaining to him when her mushrooms were taken away in an effort to appear normal before guests.

Yennefer let out a sigh. “It’s not just the mushrooms, Geralt,” she told him, firmly. “Before Vizima, she spent months running from the Hunt – starving, barely sleeping. She’s in no physical condition to survive the Trials, even if she wanted to. I won’t let you put her through them.”

Geralt frowned at her ultimatum, pulling his hands from her waist to take a cold step back. “What am I supposed to do then, Yen?” he insisted. “Rather I kill Eskel or Lambert?”

“Yes.” Yennefer’s eyes flashed dangerously as she said this, and Geralt faltered, taken aback by the starkness of her tone. “I’d kill Lambert any day if it meant not putting Ciri through the Trials unprepared,” Yennefer added, coldly. “The Trial of the Dreams would be a death sentence for her. Lambert’s lived his life, but Ciri’s has hardly even begun.”

“Don’t think Keira would feel the same way,” Geralt answered, unable to help feeling a bit on edge. She had a point, of course – the Trial of the Dreams was one of the hardest Trials, and one which routinely killed witcher recruits, but it still did not entirely excuse the haste with which she felt she could decide the fate of his fellow witcher. Geralt thought back to the last time he had seen the Trial, watched a child go through it in its completion, and it took him a moment to realize that that had been more than fifty years ago, and that the last child he could remember had been Lambert.

Lambert had been almost as prickly a boy as he was an adult, Geralt remembered, but he could still see the look of terror in the boy’s mud-coloured eyes, his freckled face pale as death as he watched Vesemir strap him down to Sad Albert. He had been so thin then, so traumatized, still freshly weary from the Trial of the Cave; he had been the only one to come back from that ordeal, and he had sobbed like an infant into Vesemir’s gambeson, telling ghastly stories of friends smashed to pulp by Ol’ Speartip before they could escape. Lambert had never been the same after that, but he had still been the lucky one, according to Vesemir – he would have to live with the trauma forever, but at least he got to live.

Geralt supposed that explained Lambert’s bitterness, as well as his resentment towards Vesemir and the Wolf School, and he could not help wondering if he might not have turned out the same way, had Eskel not escaped the Trials alive at his side.

Yennefer huffed at his answer, turning her violet eyes down at the mention of her fellow sorceress. “I don’t care what Keira feels at this point,” she said, her voice quiet, trying to hide the hurt. “She made it very clear she no longer wishes to be part of the Lodge. What befalls her and Lambert at this point can no longer be our concern.”

“Sounds to me like they just decided to retire,” Geralt remarked, his tone pointedly transparent. “Dropped all contact with their former lives so they could just be together. Enjoy each other’s company. Not jeopardize their peace by bringing politics back into it. Making targets of themselves.”

Yennefer looked up quickly at the jab, her eyes cold, lips pursed in an irate line. “If you have something to say to me, Geralt, I wish you would just come out and say it,” she told him, bluntly.

Geralt snorted, raising a brow. “Don’t wanna read my mind to find it?” he asked, challenging her. “Or afraid to make the connection? Think I’ll see something you don’t want me to see?”

Yennefer bristled at the accusation, lifting her chin to straighten to her full, ruffled height, filling the space around her like a black void as she stared her husband down. “I haven’t been reading your mind because I know how much you hate it,” she told him, sharply. “If I’d known you were going to use that against me, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Seems out of character for you to bother in the first place,” Geralt answered, folding his arms.

“You—” Yennefer began, only to stop short as she heard a knock at the door, before turning quickly to face it, watching as it opened slowly to allow a new face inside the library.

Barnabas-Basil stood in the doorway, looking a bit alarmed at the unexpected standoff, his expression confused, as if unsure what conflict he had accidentally walked in on. He thinned his lips at the sight of the two of them, his hand stiffening on the door-handle as he weighed his options, before he lifted his chin, sniffing in a short breath as he looked between the witcher and the sorceress for an audience. “You’ve a guest, sir and madame,” the majordomo announced, sounding ever the professional, despite his confusion. “She asked that she might speak to both of you. I told her to wait in the front-room until I confirmed that would be alright.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Yennefer huffed, propping her hands impatiently on her hips. Barnabas-Basil nodded in return, before closing the door again, leaving them to their fiery stalemate. Yennefer whirled back around as the door closed, holding a scolding finger out towards Geralt, and he frowned at the anger on her face, knowing she had only just begun to lay into him. “You lied to me, Geralt,” she insisted, her voice breaking for a split second into something sadder, but she quickly covered it up again, making him wonder if he had made a mistake in hearing it. “You aren’t sorry for anything. _Nothing_. Your apologies are as meaningless as your promises. You’re exactly the same as you’ve always been, and you’ve made it clear you’ve no intention to change.”

“You think I haven’t changed?” Geralt snapped back, taking a step forward towards his wife. “Changed _everything_ for you. Changed _myself_—changed this _whole house_ for you. You think _this_ was what I wanted?”

“No, I don’t,” Yennefer answered, pursing her lips. “I think you would’ve kept on the Path forever, if given the chance. And up until you learned you’d gotten Shani pregnant, I kept expecting you every day to leave to return to it. Because that’s who you are, Geralt—selfish. Thinking of yourself, and no one else. But tell me, why should I suffer – why should Ciri suffer, especially – because of one more of your selfish mistakes?” She fixed him with an icy stare as she said this, causing his confidence to wither under her gaze; he tried his hardest to give the same stare back, but he could feel himself failing with every second. “Tell me, Geralt,” she added after another moment. “Why do you only ever tell me you love me when you think you might never see me again? What message is that supposed to send? That I’ve only ever been your last thought? I knew that already.”

Geralt faltered at the stinging blow, staring back at her with a dumbfounded gaze, all stubbornness leaving him as he tried to think of some response, but her words had left him all but speechless. Yennefer turned to glance towards the door as the sound of footsteps began to approach from outside, but quickly turned back to him before they reached the doorway, her pretty nose flattening as she narrowed her eyes. “This conversation is not over,” she hissed, her voice barely above an incensed whisper. “We _will_ return to this. I have many things to say to you, Geralt. This is not the marriage you promised.”

“Could say the same to you,” Geralt answered, coldly, feeling a slight sense of triumph as Yennefer’s cheeks turned pink, but she did not have time to get in a final word before the door opened again, allowing their guest into the library.

Triss Merigold looked much the same as the last time either of them had seen her, though her style had changed somewhat, with her auburn hair hanging loose in ringlets about her freckled face. Geralt remembered when she used to wear her hair like that, before she had taken to pulling it back out of necessity, but that had been years ago, before she had had to sacrifice glamour for practicality. Now, she wore her long tendrils pinned at the sides of her head with florets of green and gold, and she dressed in all red and gold, Koviri colours, save for the accent of her constant green necklace. Triss smiled as she noticed the two of them, only for her smile to fade a bit at their dour expressions, but Yennefer quickly put on a bright face in return, crossing to embrace her friend.

“Triss,” Yennefer cooed, pulling the younger sorceress in for a tight hug. “You look absolutely gorgeous, my darling. They’re treating you well up at Pont Vanis, I assume?”

“As well as can be expected,” Triss answered, giving a slight, uncertain chuckle. She smiled as she looked up at Yennefer, but it was clear she could tell something was amiss, and Geralt wondered if she could guess what their fight was about, or if she thought he was still oblivious to the matters of the Lodge. “Kovir’s winters are colder than I’m used to, but I’ve faced much worse than a few headcolds before,” Triss added, tentatively. “Thankfully I’ve managed to pre-enchant some pendants for the most common ailments, so they’re ready to use at a moment’s notice.” She held Yennefer close as she spoke, allowing their hug to stretch on for a good long while, before she finally let go again, pulling back to get a better look at the friend she had apparently not seen in nearly half a year’s time.

“Married life is treating you well,” Triss observed, pulling Yennefer’s hand up to admire her ring. “I never took you for the settling-down type—either of you. I have to say, I was surprised when you told me.” She glanced up at Geralt as she said this, almost too quickly for him to notice, before she turned her attention to Yennefer again, releasing her hand to let it fall back to her side. “I was also a bit surprised to read the other details of your letter,” she admitted, her expression falling a bit as the conversation turned suddenly serious. “I hope nothing’s gone wrong with the duchy down here. I can’t imagine why you’d need to use the safe-houses.”

“Oh, it’s not for me,” Yennefer answered quickly, waving a hand as if to shoo away a pesky fly. “We’ve had no trouble with the duchy, ourselves, though their certification process leaves something to be desired. We really need the safe-houses for Shani, who…” She paused, sucking her lip, seeming to realize how hard the situation would be to explain, before she let out a frustrated exhale, frowning as she considered the best way to handle it. “It’s not important why,” she finally said, propping her hands impatiently on her hips. “The _why_ can be explained tonight, after supper. It’s the _can_ that’s most important right now. Can you, Triss, or can you not, secure passage for Shani through the Northern safe-houses?”

“The doctor?” Triss asked, making a face at the request. “I… guess I could. Though I can’t think of why a doctor would need a safe-house.”

“I’ll explain it all later,” Yennefer assured her, raising a hand to hold back further questions. “Either way, we’d need absolute assurance that no one else would be using them at the same time as us. It’s too much to go into right now, but it’s _vitally_ important we not let anyone see her. She’s…” She paused, humming, chewing her lip as she tried to think of a simple way to explain. “‘In danger’ seems a reductive way to put it,” she admitted. “Perhaps you could say she’s… in duress?”

“There’s a bounty on her head,” Geralt provided, bluntly. “A deadly one. People will try to kill her if they find her.”

Yennefer sighed at the frank explanation, crossing her arms as she lowered her head in frustration. “That’s… not exactly it, but close enough,” she agreed, not looking back at her husband as she spoke. “We need to find somewhere to keep her safe, where we can control her exposure and movement at all times. The Northern safe-houses seemed the most obvious solution, but if you know of any other way…”

Triss shook her head, looking more concerned than confused this time. “There’s nothing as secure as the safe-houses,” she assured them. “Though I can’t really control who’ll be in them, unfortunately. They’re made to be sanctuaries, no questions asked. If someone comes around needing help, I can’t exactly turn them away.”

“Could always use Dandelion’s idea,” Geralt suggested, causing Yennefer to prickle, pointedly not acknowledging him again. “Hide her out with the gangs of Novigrad. Keep her safe and out of sight that way.”

Triss gave a silvery laugh at the suggestion, seeming unsure if he were joking or not, looking between the faces of her friend and the witcher, as if trying to figure it out that way. “Is that what Dandelion said?” she asked after a moment. “Might as well hide her in a pack of wild dogs. His contacts will make her disappear, alright – it’s_ un_-disappearing her afterward that’ll be the problem.”

“Zoltan’s no fool about these things,” Geralt argued, getting a bit annoyed at being ganged up on. “Knows how to lay low when he needs to. Wouldn’t let anyone lay a finger on Shani under his watch.”

“Still, I think we should consider other options before jumping to the gangs of Novigrad as our solution,” Yennefer interjected, looking up at Triss again as she sought to return the conversation to its original track. “I was really hoping you might be able to help us with the safe-houses, but I can understand if you can’t. I couldn’t ask you to compromise your life’s work to keep safe one woman and her unborn child.”

At the mention of an unborn child, Triss’ eyes grew suddenly wider, and she pursed her lips, her freckled cheeks growing slightly pinker at the thought. “Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. “You never said Shani was pregnant! That changes things, Yen—she’s vulnerable. I can’t turn away a woman in need.” She sucked her lip, pressing her dainty fingers against her cheek as she thought, her green eyes searching the floor as she considered the best way she could help. “She’ll need special attention,” she observed after a moment, looking up to Yennefer again. “I can isolate my best safe-houses for her… gather extra supplies from some of the others. Make sure she has everything she needs. Even the mages would have to understand that decision.”

Yennefer frowned at the last mention, pursing her lips into an uncomfortable line. “I doubt the mages would be as understanding as you think,” she said, letting out a thin breath at the thought. “And it would be best not to mention it to them either way. Just… say that the house is unavailable, if they ask.”

Triss furrowed her brow. “But… why?” she asked. “These mages aren’t dangerous. If anything, they’d probably want to help—I’ve never met a sorceress who wanted to harm a child.”

Yennefer stiffened, just enough for Geralt to notice, but she said nothing, only offering Triss a warm, forced smile in return. “It’s not important,” she said, resting a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Merely an abundance of caution, is all. Perhaps we should head into the front-room, see if Marlene has set the table—”

“Cut the bullshit,” Geralt interrupted, the suddenness of his statement causing Yennefer to look back, too startled to remember to ignore him. “Know you’ve been in Toussaint for a while, Triss. Know something happened with the Lodge the other day, too. Something that took Yen out of the house while I was in town with Dandelion.”

Triss’ brows shot up at the claim, and she faltered, before looking over at Yennefer again, confused. “I didn’t know you told him,” she said, speaking softly, as if trying to converse around the witcher.

Yennefer shook her head. “I didn’t,” she answered. “I’m not really sure how he knows.”

“Lots of ways to find things out,” Geralt told her. “Maybe I just read your mind.”

Yennefer pursed her lips at the snide remark, her face looking like a pink bubble about to burst, but Geralt ignored her, turning his attention instead to Triss and staring her down, unblinkingly. He knew he still held some sway over Triss, as little as he liked to exploit that, but he hoped whatever strange feelings she still had for him might work in his favour this time. Triss faltered at the strange interaction, before turning to look over at Yennefer again, watching as the older sorceress thinned her lips, making her feelings on the matter clear. Triss blinked at the icy look, seeming to debate whether or not to speak again, before she turned her attention to Geralt once more, taking a deep breath and sucking her lip in thought.

“I received an anomaly,” Triss admitted after a moment, reaching into a pouch at her hip to find it. “An artefact, of… some unknown origin. From the look of it, I was sure some member of the Lodge would recognize something about it.” Giving a soft huff, she slid the item with some difficulty from her pouch, brushing it off before handing it over to Geralt to take a closer look. “Yennefer came the closest,” she added, crossing her arms and staring down at the object in Geralt’s hands. “She said you’d found something similar recently, but none of us knew anything apart from that. Our meeting ultimately came to nothing, so… we decided to leave off until we found out more.”

“Where did you find this?” Geralt insisted, holding up the artefact with a sharp jerk.

Triss faltered again, seeming to be fighting from taking a wary step back. “It was sent to me by… an old friend,” she answered, seeming to have difficulty staying pointedly vague. “Said he found it in a forest near Kaedwen. I can’t imagine what it could’ve been doing there. A forest in Kaedwen seems an awful long way from anything that could do… _that_.”

“And where in the forest did this _old friend_ say he found it?” Geralt asked, starting to get annoyed with her guarded answers. He looked up, meeting eyes with Yennefer, feeling his wife’s sharp gaze boring into his like glass; he knew she had likely asked Triss not to speak to him about this, but Triss had never been a very convincing liar. “Know where I found mine,” he added, turning his attention to Triss again. “If your friend found his in a similar place, might help us figure these out. What they are, where they’re coming from.”

“He didn’t say what it was,” Triss blurted out, the words leaving her before she could stop them. She faltered, before turning to look at Yennefer again, who seemed more resigned to her friend’s poor secret-keeping than frustrated by it. “I’m sorry, Yen,” Triss told her, softly, before turning her attention to Geralt again. “He said he found it while fighting a monster, but… he didn’t say what kind it was. Only that he found that embedded in its skin, and he sent it to me because…” She stopped, sucking her lip, staring pointedly down at the artefact to avoid eye contact with the witcher.

“Because… he didn’t want to disturb you and Yennefer in your retirement,” she said, speaking softer, seeming embarrassed by her failure to ensure this request. “And because… he didn’t want you to know he was still hunting monsters. He didn’t want you to know he failed in his resolve less than a year after he swore to it.” Taking a deep breath in, Triss crossed her arms tightly, tucking her hands around her ribcage in a wary embrace. “He wanted me to keep it a secret from you and Yen,” she added, unhappily. “But… I didn’t know where else to turn. I’m sorry, Geralt. I tried to figure it out on my own, but… the truth is, I figured you were the only other person who might know anything about it.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Geralt answered, handing the artefact back to Triss. She looked up in surprise as she took it, seeming shocked he would deny her his help. “Know just as much as you do. So does Ciri. Asked her about it after I found mine.” He looked down at the disc in Triss’ hands again, letting out a hard breath and making a face at the sight of it. “Second time one of those has cropped up now,” he observed. “Ciri thinks they’re meant for cataloguing… something. Wonder if whoever made them died on the road, then these necrophages fed on them before scattering to the winds.”

Yennefer scoffed, causing Geralt to look up in surprise at her reaction. “And what?” she asked. “You think your hybrid was just… out and about, scavenging the roads for overturned carts?”

“Thought you didn’t believe my hybrid story,” Geralt answered, not bothering to hide his scepticism.

Yennefer shrugged, tossing a swath of raven hair over her shoulder in response. “There has to be a reason Eskel didn’t wish to share whatever creature he found his on,” she returned, indifferent to his tone. “Likely because he knew how strange it would sound, and he didn’t want to risk Triss not believing him for it.”

“I never said it was Eskel,” Triss pointed out, her voice quiet, green eyes wide at the guess.

“You didn’t have to,” Yennefer told her, bluntly. “We only know two monster hunters besides Geralt who would contact us. One has cut communication with the Lodge, so it stands to reason the other would be the one corresponding with you.” Turning to look up at Geralt again, she raised her brows, pursing her lips in a stubborn line. “And besides,” she added. “You don’t even know that whatever Eskel encountered _was_ a necrophage. He never said what it was. It could’ve been anything at all—an insectoid, perhaps.”

“Shani said she saw Eskel near Kaedwen, too,” Geralt put in, ignoring Yennefer’s addendum. “Said he was travelling through the Kestrel Mountains. About a month before she came to live here, with us.”

“So, about three and a half, four months ago,” Yennefer concluded, looking over to Triss again, expectantly. “And Geralt found his about a month after that. When did Eskel send you his artefact, exactly?”

Triss bit her lip, thinking back, her thin brows furrowing in a pensive line. “I only received it a few weeks ago,” she answered, speaking slowly, pondering it out. “He sent it by messenger, and from Kaedwen to Pont Vanis on horseback would take about… a week or so. Possibly more, to account for boat travel, but… if I had to guess, I’d say Eskel’s probably still in Kaedwen somewhere.”

Geralt frowned, exchanging a quick look with Yennefer before returning his attention to Triss. “Is that what he’s doing in Kaedwen?” he asked. “Going back to hunting monsters again?”

Triss shook her head. “Just the one,” she answered. “He never meant to get back into witcher work, he said. He tried to get a normal job, but he couldn’t just stand by and watch innocent people be slaughtered.” She sighed, digging into her hip-pouch again, before sliding out a crumpled piece of parchment, shaking it out and handing it over for Geralt to take a look at. The letter was indeed written in Eskel’s hand, and the parchment itself smelled of dirt roads and leather, though the distinct scent of evergreen sap and goat fur still lingered as well, a trace of aroma not even weeks in a messenger’s bag could completely expunge, it seemed.

“That’s the only letter I’ve gotten from him,” Triss explained, frowning down at the wrinkled parchment. “He sent me the artefact and asked me to look into it. After that, I lost track of him again. My best guess is he might be heading back to Kaer Morhen, to visit the old stronghold one last time.”

“Don’t think so,” Geralt answered, shaking his head and folding the letter up again. “If Eskel’s in Kaedwen, probably got something important to do. Wouldn’t go anywhere near the old fortress otherwise.”

Triss’ frown deepened, but she only gave a high-pitched sigh, seeming to accept his expertise. “Well, you know him better than I do,” she said, sadly. “I just wish I hadn’t lost track of him again. What if he runs into another creature? Who’s to say the next one won’t kill him?”

Geralt shrugged, handing the letter back, causing Triss to make a face as she accepted it from his hand. “Eskel’s an old professional,” he told her, watching as she stashed the letter in her pouch again. “Doubt one monster will be the death of him. And if it is, there are worse ways for a witcher to die.” He paused at the thought, feeling the burn of Yennefer’s eyes boring into him as he said it, before he folded his arms again, staring down at Triss as he turned the idea over in his mind. “Might be worth tracking him down, regardless,” he added, scratching absentmindedly at his beard. “Ask him what kind of monster it was. See if he’s heard from Lambert. Could be worth a shot.”

“Perhaps if you find him, you can ask if he’s looking for death in those mountains,” Yennefer suggested, her voice pointedly cold. “A witcher chasing strange monsters far from home doesn’t sound like a man looking to live long.”

“Could be,” Geralt answered, looking up at the jab. “Or could just be a man looking for extra income. Earning some coin to provide for a wife who only criticizes, but doesn’t work.”

Yennefer stiffened at the slight, holding her stoic expression as she stared at her husband across the floor, before she turned her attention back to Triss, placing a hand on her arm with an encouraging, too-wide smile. “Come,” she said, starting to turn the younger sorceress quickly towards the door of the library again. “I’m sure Marlene has set the table by now. You must be _starving_ after your long trip down here.”

“But I used a portal—” Triss started to say, only to be quickly shushed by Yennefer again, herding her towards the door and into the hall as Geralt watched, until their voices faded out to nothing down the long corridor.

* * *

Dinner with Triss had been less of an awkward ordeal than Geralt had anticipated, though the growing number of their party had forced them to pull chairs from the breakfast-nook to supplement the long dining table. Marlene had prepared a meal of roasted pork with spiced potatoes and greens for the evening, filling the manor with the heavenly aroma of glazed honey and spices as they sat down to enjoy their meal. Conversation among the party had been organic and instantaneous, with Regis and Yennefer exchanging thoughts on the vampire’s research, while Shani and Dandelion spoke eagerly with Triss, catching her up on everything that had happened at the vineyard before her arrival. It was hard to catch more than small snippets of each conversation, but Geralt found himself content to simply sit back and listen, letting his attention wander as he ate, waiting for something to catch his ear.

“…Only the summer capitol,” Triss told her group, her ringlets bobbing eagerly as she nodded her head with her story. “Lan Exeter is actually the winter capitol. It’s built on the waterfront, but taxes for portside property are unbelievably high. The houses are all built with an emphasis on height, so as to minimize the amount of portside space they comprise. It’s the most unusual sight—I was _shocked_ the first time I went there and actually saw them.”

“Seems like a clever workaround,” Shani answered, swirling her juice thoughtfully in her cup. “But without the crops from the summer capitol, what’s the major export of Kovir during the winter?”

“Glass,” Triss answered, looking up at Shani again. “We’re the Continent’s main source of glass year-round. Poviss is the main distributor of salt, with their salt mines making up most of their economy…” The conversation continued on, but Geralt found his interest waning, and he turned his attention instead to Yennefer and Regis, listening in as they spoke in more hushed tones on their own topic on the other side of him. Yennefer sat beside Geralt at the table, but her manner made it clear she was there by stubbornness alone, as he could see she had moved her chair a few inches further from him than he knew it had originally been set.

“…Reading into Alzur’s experiments,” Regis was saying, causing Geralt to look up in interest at the name; the vampire glanced over at him as he tuned in, but said nothing, only returning his attention to Yennefer as he continued. “Very little information exists, unfortunately,” he added, frowning a bit as he took a thoughtful sip of wine. “And even less about his master, who I’ve heard did brutal experiments on children as well as adults. Most of the research I’ve found has only talked about their work in physical alteration spells by way of beasts – expansion, mutations that cause such. The creation of large, dangerous creatures, much larger than our witcher, as substantial as he is.”

“Alzur’s Double Cross,” Yennefer agreed, thinning her lips at the familiar name. “That was where my own research kept coming up short as well. One would almost think his creation of witchers was an accident in the larger scheme. A man who seeks only to harm with his creations would never make something to destroy them.”

“Unless his intent was not to harm, but to merely to experiment,” Regis pointed out, raising his brows. “Push the boundaries of nature in a controlled setting. It would certainly explain why he would want to make his creations sterile, if that was the case. With him as the sole patron of his experiments’ production, he could dictate what mutations would be allowed to exist to fruition— but without him to oversee that, who knows what variations their mutations might produce?” Taking another sip of wine, he hummed low in his throat, sitting back again, staring intently at his untouched silverware as he considered the possibility.

“If his specimens were allowed to mix their mutated genes with other genetics—perhaps even other mutated genetics—there’s no telling in what ways they could further mutate,” Regis added. “Perhaps even creating worse monsters than Alzur, himself had.”

“So what’re you saying?” Geralt asked, frowning across the table at Regis. “That whoever made the potion that reversed my sterility was trying to… reverse sterility in giant monsters?”

Regis frowned at the question, tapping his long fingernail thoughtfully against the side of his glass. “I’m not sure,” he admitted after a moment. “Though I agree it sounds ludicrous when you put it like that. Alzur’s sterility failsafe had its reasons, but… I’m not sure who would have a motive to reverse them. As I said, the research I’ve found on Alzur’s experiments has been… disappointing, at best.”

Geralt hummed, opening his mouth to speak again, only to sit back as he felt his medallion give a tremor against his chest, but he quickly pressed a hand to it, stilling it, before turning his attention to Regis again. Yennefer glanced over curiously at this, looking first at his medallion, and then his face, before she turned her attention away again, looking anywhere but at her husband. “Hm,” Geralt said, glancing over towards Yennefer, who was suddenly very interested in her food. “Appreciate you for trying, Regis. More than I’ve found out, anyway.”

The rest of the meal continued without incident, with everyone eventually splitting off to attend to their own devices – Shani and Dandelion headed for the day-room, intent on spending time going over the bard’s newest work, while Yennefer and Triss took to the master bedroom with two more bottles of wine, locking the door to prevent interruptions to their catch-up time. Even Regis had retreated to the library after dinner, citing a new theory he had been considering since their talk, leaving Geralt alone to walk the manor grounds while he waited for his friends to tire themselves out for the evening.

The air in the garden was pleasant, the flora bathed in a swath of silvery moonlight, and Geralt found himself nearly lost in thought as he moved between the rows of flowers, taking them in with a distracted gaze. Regis’ comments on Alzur’s experiments were interesting, if somewhat unsettling to think about, particularly his theory about witchers’ sterility being put in place to prevent unintended submutations. Geralt had always heard say that witchers could not reproduce with humans because they were no longer human, themselves, but it made more sense to think they had been intentionally prevented from it, as it was impossible to ensure their mutations could be reproduced organically.

That thought bore a more troubling one, making Geralt realize that, if there was no way to know how his genes would transmute, there was also no way to know if the baby Shani carried was actually human at all, or something more sinister. The reaction of Vesemir’s medallion had told him that the baby carried some form of chaos energy, but not how much or what kind, and the possibilities were too varied for him to even start to guess. His mind raced at the realization, before it immediately went to Uma, and then to the botchling, both terrible, twisted creatures that had set off his own medallion like Vesemir’s had done around Shani – but he quickly pushed the horrific thoughts from his mind, telling himself that it was too soon to dread the worst. There was nothing to indicate that Shani’s baby was a monster, and he rubbed his eyes, wondering if he should head back to the house and get some sleep.

“You’re out mighty late.”

The voice took Geralt by surprise, and he turned, only to falter as he spotted the familiar shock of strawberry hair, noting how the blonde in her strands was much more conspicuous in the pale moonlight; it reminded him strongly of Ciri for a moment, but he quickly pushed the thought from his mind again, frowning as he glanced down over the emerald coat and white stockings of his seemingly unshakeable pest. “You again,” he told her, folding his arms as he turned to face the girl. “What do you want this time? Wife isn’t big on you coming around anymore. Says you asked some pretty rude questions last time you were here.”

Rosie frowned at the curt greeting, her petal lips twisting as she gripped the edges of her coat. “I only asked if she could have children,” she answered after a moment, innocently. “How was that rude?”

“Think that’s a normal question?” Geralt asked, thinning his lips.

Rosie wrinkled her nose, looking up at him as she pulled her coat tighter around her. “I asked _you_,” she told him, matter-of-factly. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

“That’s—different,” Geralt huffed, moving his hands agitatedly to his hips. “Don’t care if you ask me. But Yen—my wife—and other sorceresses, they don’t like to be asked. Hurts their feelings.”

Rosie frowned, pressing her lips together in a worried line as she stared up at him. “I didn’t mean to hurt her, master witcher,” she said, softly. “I was only curious. I didn’t know.”

Geralt paused at her answer, caught off-guard, before he slowly began to deflate again, dropping his gaze to the garden walk as he let out a long, tired breath. “Figured,” he said, looking up at Rosie again. “Just— be more careful next time. Some things aren’t okay to ask. Could really hurt somebody.” He frowned at the thought, wondering for a moment what kind of questions were normal for children to ask; he had spent years on the road, and had encountered any number of curious children in his travels, inquisitive souls who had approached him on the street to ask him the reason for his white hair, his bathing habits, and whether witchers were known for eating the children they stole. Children had very little filter, he knew, and very little sense besides, so he supposed it was not so strange that this one should ask whether Yennefer had any intentions of being a mother.

Shaking the thought from his head again, he looked down to the girl, disapproving once more, watching as she poked at one of the flower-bushes, distracted in his moment of silence. “But—that’s not the point,” he said, causing her to look up again, her eyes wide. “What’re you doing here? It’s the middle of the night. Shouldn’t you be back at home?”

Rosie paused, rubbing the soft petals of a bloom between her fingers as she thought. “I wanted to talk to you,” she finally said, retrieving her hands to return them to the pockets of her coat. “I was curious about something you said the other day. May I see the thing you found lodged in that monster’s neck?”

Geralt frowned, taken aback, before crossing his arms stubbornly over his chest again. “Don’t have it anymore,” he lied. “Figured someone else would get better use of it.”

“Did you figure out what it was at least?” Rosie pressed, her little mouth twisting in discouragement. “I was so hoping you might have kept it. Are you really not curious about what it might have been?”

“Cataloguing plate of some kind,” Geralt answered, bluntly. “That was our closest guess.”

“And it was in a monster’s neck?” Rosie insisted. “How could it have gotten in there like that?”

Geralt faltered, unable to help feeling a bit uneasy with all the girl’s questions. “Could’ve… lodged in its neck when it swallowed it,” he said, trying not to sound as unsure as he felt. They were valid questions, he realized, but he could not help feeling a bit put on the spot even so, and he wondered if he might have too easily dismissed the importance of the plates in his own investigation.

Rosie wrinkled her freckled nose, making a face as she thought it over. “Do monsters usually swallow metal plates?” she asked. “Is that something you see a lot, as a witcher?”

“Seen lots of strange things,” Geralt answered, curtly. “But— let me ask _you_ something. What were you doing in the bar the other night?” Rosie looked up quickly at the question, her blue-green eyes wide and startled in the moonlight, but she only pursed her lips in response, staring up at him with locked knees as she waited for him to continue. “Must’ve come in for a reason,” he pressed, wondering what had surprised her about his question – her green coat stood out like a sore thumb in most places, so he was not sure why she seemed shocked that he had seen her. “Took off before I could talk to you. Made me look like a damn fool, chasing after you. Friend thought I was crazy.”

“I went in to talk to you,” Rosie answered, stiffly. “But… I had to leave. I almost got caught. Someone must have said something… nobody knew I talked to you before, but they do now.”

“Said something to who?” Geralt insisted, making a face at the strange excuse. “Your father? Or—your uncle? Wasn’t me. Don’t know who they are to tell them.”

Rosie frowned, but gave no response, only smoothing the front of her little green coat in thought. “I can’t stay long, master witcher,” she said after a moment, looking up at Geralt again with a solemn expression. “I have to get back. I’d hoped you might have the plate so I could see it before I had to go.”

“Don’t have it,” Geralt repeated, starting to get annoyed with the girl’s refusal to listen. “Why didn’t you talk to me anyway? Could’ve finally introduced me to your father and uncle.”

Rosie made a face at the suggestion, her little fingers twisting anxiously into the hem of her coat. “I’m almost certain you know them already,” she returned, seeming uncomfortable with the thought.

Geralt frowned, wondering where in his question he might have struck a nerve this time; he knew the girl disliked discussing her father, but the thought of him already knowing the man seemed to make that somehow worse. “Doubt it,” he answered, shaking his head. “Don’t know anyone with a kid named Rosie.”

“It’s only a nickname,” Rosie shot back, letting out a soft, frustrated huff. “Everyone calls me by it except my father. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like most things. Sometimes I wonder if he likes me.” She faltered at this, pursing her lips, looking for a moment as if she might have said too much, before she finally lifted her little chin again, letting out another indignant puff of breath. “And besides,” she added, matter-of-factly. “I had other reasons for leaving. It was crowded, and loud, and smelled horrid, and— I didn’t want to speak to you when you’d been drinking.”

Geralt blinked at the answer, taken aback, unsure which part to respond to – this was more than he had learned about the girl in some time, though he was certain she would not like him trying to pry further. He could not help his curiosity from creeping back with every strange new tidbit he learned about her, but he also knew the irony of scolding her for prying questions, only to turn around with some of his own. “Hm,” he answered after a while. “Fair. Yen doesn’t like to talk to me when I’ve been drinking, either.”

“You really should be better to her, you know,” Rosie told him, causing Geralt to falter again, thunderstruck. Last he had spoken to her, Rosie had not even known he and Yennefer were married, let alone that they were having troubles, yet here she was scolding him, as if she somehow knew they had been fighting barely hours ago. He had to wonder who the little girl had been speaking to, what vile rumours had been spreading through the tongues of taverns, and he gritted his teeth, feeling a faint hot tinge begin to reach his ears as he stared down at her, unsure what to say.

“Who told you to say that?” Geralt insisted, trying hard to keep his tone in check. It was not the girl’s fault, he reminded himself – children repeated what they heard, to whatever end. “Somebody been talking about me behind my back? Your uncle put you up to saying that?”

Rosie shook her head. “No,” she answered, honestly. “No one said anything, master witcher. I can just tell when someone is unhappy. I think I’ve only seen her smile once since first we met.”

Geralt hesitated, tempted for a moment to explain that Yennefer’s dour mood towards the girl was on her, not him, but he resisted the urge, only thinning his lips as he folded his arms again, still on edge. “Hm,” he said, deciding to drop the subject. “So what did you come to tell me, before you had to leave the tavern?”

Rosie looked up, shaking her head again. “It’s not important now,” she answered, quickly. “I was going to tell you there was a stranger at your house. But you found out anyway, so you didn’t need me there to tell you.”

“Stranger must’ve been here a while for you to see her and come all the way to town to tell me,” Geralt noted, frowning.

Rosie shrugged, looking down to her shoes again. “I did arrive to Beauclair quite late,” she admitted.

Geralt paused again, wondering what the girl expected him to take away from her admission; this was not the first time she had told him about her ability to get from his house to town at an improbable speed, he realized. The only logical explanation he could think of was that someone was escorting her around on horseback, but even that seemed unusual at best, and downright suspicious at worst. It was also possible, he guessed, that she had more supernatural means of transport, but that thought was quickly dismissed as the memory of his conversation with Regis came to mind – the vampire had all but shut down his suspicions of the girl’s nonhuman qualities, but Geralt still could not help wondering if she might be something even Regis had not thought to consider.

Furrowing his brow at the thought, Geralt pursed his lips, staring down at the girl. “Asked my friend about you,” he told her after a moment, causing her to look up again, curiously.

“Oh?” Rosie asked. “And what did your friend say?”

“Says you’re probably not a vampire,” Geralt answered.

Rosie hummed, twirling the edges of her coat as she thought. “He’s right,” she said after a moment. “I’m not.”

Geralt frowned at the unhelpful answer. “What are you, then?” he asked, frustrated. “Starting to think you’re not human.”

“Why?” Rosie asked, looking up at him again. “Because I don’t like answering your questions? Maybe I just don’t trust you. We _are_ still strangers, after all.”

“Hardly strangers,” Geralt answered, folding his arms at the roundabout response. “And you sure come around my house a lot for someone who doesn’t trust me.”

Rosie huffed, smoothing the front of her coat, seeming a bit offput by his scepticism. “Think what you like, master witcher,” she told him, looking up at him again, her expression frank. “You wouldn’t be the first to call me a monster. People can be quite cruel when they think no one’s around to listen.”

Geralt faltered, taken aback by her answer, feeling suddenly very guilty for asking – though he could not quite put his finger on what the girl was, he hardly thought of her as a monster. Regis had described her as a pest, but even that seemed harsh now, looking at her, and Geralt let out a soft sigh, dropping his gaze, before letting his hands return to his hips. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean it that way. Just… hard to know who I can trust anymore.” He paused, realizing that was his own fault, before he looked up again, his mouth thinning in concern. “Does… your father drink?” he asked after another moment, trying to tread delicately on the topic. “That why you don’t like it? That why he’s so… distracted, all the time?”

Rosie paused at the question, her petal mouth twisting, as if trying to decide how to answer. “He works very hard to provide for me,” she finally said, tactfully avoiding the subject. “He does _try_ to be a good father. I know he does. He just misses his wife very much, I think.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, his frown deepening at the thought. “Sorry. ‘Least you have your uncle.”

“Yes,” Rosie agreed, nodding solemnly. “It’s kind of him to look after me the way he does. I know he misses my mother terribly, but he has his own matters to deal with.”

“Right,” Geralt answered. “His work in Beauclair. Need a ride back? Getting pretty late.”

Rosie shook her head, scraping her shoes across the stones so the buckles gave a soft jingle, and Geralt paused as he realized he did not mind the sound so much now as the first few times he had heard it. “No thank you, master witcher,” she answered, pushing her tiny hands into her pockets again. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need a ride. I can get back on my own. I’m quite fast, you know.”

“So you keep telling me,” Geralt grunted, feeling something picking at his brain at the repeated phrase. Perhaps she was being literal, he thought, and she was simply incredibly fast on her feet, a child with energy to burn and stamina enough to get her where she needed to be. It was something he could not help envying, sometimes finding himself winded after a hard fight or uphill trek, and he could not help wondering if a six-month diet of decadent foods was truly enough to undo a century of witcher training. Still, he knew it was unsafe for a girl her age to be walking the roads of Toussaint this late at night, and he started to open his mouth to object, when he suddenly heard a soft voice calling his name across the vineyard.

Turning to see who had called for him, he watched as a small yellow light bobbed towards him across the garden from the house, growing ever closer as he squinted, trying to make out who was holding it. “Geralt?” Shani called again, moving steadily across the starlit garden in his direction; she was lit up by the soft glow of the lantern in her hand, and he could not help staring at the way it accentuated her features in the most unusual of ways. She wore her travelling-cloak against the chill of night, pulled snugly around her form like a velvet cocoon, and she smiled up at him as she approached him, holding up the lantern to better see his face.

“Geralt,” she said, letting out a soft breath. “What are you doing out here in the dark, alone? Everyone’s gone to bed, but I was worried about you, so I came out here to find you.”

“Not alone,” Geralt answered, shaking his head. “Got—” He turned, pointing back behind him, only to realize that Rosie was already gone, having vanished without even the sound of her jingling shoes to alert him while he had been talking to Shani. He frowned at the suddenness of her departure, wondering how he could have missed her leaving like that, but he quickly shook his head at the thought, turning to look back at Shani instead. “Got… Roach,” he said, saving himself. “Got… chickens. Plenty of company.”

Shani chuckled, lifting the lantern a little higher to get a better look at his face. “You always did like animals better than people,” she agreed, looking up at him fondly in the candlelight. “But if you wouldn’t mind some human company, you’re welcome to join me in my room for some sleep. Yennefer and Triss have taken over your bedroom, and Julian is sleeping in the clinic. I know you don’t really _need_ to sleep, but I thought I’d extend the offer, regardless.” She paused, rolling her rosy lips, her hazel eyes growing puckish in the lantern-light as she turned them towards the flowers instead. “_If_, of course, you wouldn’t mind sleeping with clothes on for once,” she added, wryly. “I’m almost six months pregnant with one baby, after all. I don’t think I can handle any more responsibility.”

“Couldn’t get you pregnant again anyway,” Geralt answered, shaking his head at the thought. “Superfoetation only occurs in certain animals. Cats, rabbits, horses, mice…” He stopped, watching as Shani looked up at him again, an endeared smile curling her lips. “…Oh,” he said. “You were joking.”

“Yes,” Shani answered. “But it’s good to know you’ve been doing some research. If not on babies, then at least on cats, rabbits, and mice.” She smiled again, before reaching out to take hold of his arm in the darkness, indicating with her lantern towards the house and holding close to his side as he led the way.

The house was quiet as they entered, though not completely silent despite the late hour, with the last logs popping down to embers in the fireplace and the low whisper of female voices hissing through the thick master bedroom door. Shani blew out her lantern as they entered the house, letting Geralt set it down by the doorway for her, before she began to untie her heavy cloak, letting him hang it by the door for her as well. He paused as he handled the cloak, running his fingers over the patterned velvet, wondering how many years she had actually had it – this was the same cloak he had seen her wear in Oxenfurt, when he had first been introduced to her eight years ago, he remembered. He supposed it had been a gift of some sort, something to make her hold onto it for so long, and he let out a low grunt as he hung it gingerly on the hook, smoothing it out to ensure it did not wrinkle overnight.

The trip up the stairs was worrisome for Geralt, but Shani appeared not to mind it as much, seeming only a bit out of breath as they reached the landing and taking a moment to recover before starting to get ready for bed. Geralt sat on the edge of the bed as he pulled off his boots, laying them aside neatly on the floor, before he turned towards the wall, offering Shani some privacy as she changed from her loose day-clothes into her nightgown. “Such a gentleman, Geralt,” Shani laughed, smoothing the soft material of the nightshirt across her round stomach. She smiled as she approached him, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his scruffy cheek, and Geralt felt a warm blush touch the tips of his ears as he watched her push a few loose strands of white hair from his face.

“Don’t let my teasing fool you,” Shani told him, her voice more sincere now. “I do appreciate it. You’re very sweet. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you and Yennefer helping me these past few months.”

“Think I messed up with Yen today,” Geralt answered, letting out a short huff at the admission. “Started arguing about Ciri, and… said some things I shouldn’t’ve. Got real defensive.” He paused, making a face, remembering all the harsh words that had gone between them that day, before he looked down to the floor, hardly noticing as Shani moved to sit beside him on the bed. “Always get defensive about Ciri,” he added, letting out another sigh at the thought, wearier this time. “Know I can’t help it, but… just wish… it hadn’t happened with Yen. Spent so long looking for Ciri, fighting for her, cutting down anyone who stood in my way. Thought it’d be over now. Thought things’d be better. But it still feels like I’m fighting everyone. Even people I know want what’s best for her.”

Shani hummed at the thought, running a pensive hand over her stomach as she considered. “Maybe you should ask Ciri what she thinks,” she suggested after a moment, looking up at Geralt again with wise, soft eyes. “I know you only want what’s best for her, both of you do, but… maybe you don’t know what that is anymore. She’s a grown woman now, and people… they change. It’s a natural part of life.” She took a deep breath at the thought, pausing a moment to let her hand rest on her stomach, before she leaned her head over to rest Geralt’s arm, letting her breath out again in a soft sigh. “I don’t think it’s _bad_ that you and Yen have different views on what your daughter needs,” she observed, thoughtfully. “That just means you’re conscientious parents. But ultimately, it should be left to Ciri to decide.”

Geralt frowned at the thought, nodding along, unable to help wondering if this was an omen of things to come; if he and Yennefer were so divided on Ciri’s care, he could not imagine how they would be with Shani’s baby. Perhaps it was a good thing she intended to leave once the baby was old enough to travel, he thought, though he could not help but feel something missing now, some part of him that felt hollow at the thought of not being able to help raise his own child. Letting out another soft grunt, he kissed the top of Shani’s head, before turning to climb into bed, cornering himself against the wall to allow as much room in the bed for her as he could manage. Shani seemed just as happy to go to bed, and she let out a soft yawn as she climbed in beside him, nestling down under the covers and moving back to press her warm back against his chest.

Geralt let out a warm breath, leaning his chin on Shani’s shoulder and moving his arm around her to hold her, and he could not help a bit of surprise as she reached up, moving his hand to her stomach instead. Her stomach was warm, and incredibly round, more than he had anticipated, and he paused, before letting his hand move hesitantly over it, feeling the curve against his anxious palm. He was unsure how she managed to stay so accepting through nine months of her body changing like this, as the idea of something growing inside of a person was almost enough to make him pull his hand away again. That was the difference between a doctor’s perspective and witcher’s, he guessed, though he had to admit his envy for Shani’s calmness in the face of such things, and he moved his hand over her stomach again at the thought, finally letting it rest at the widest peak.

He felt her warm hand settle over his, curling her fingers over his hand as she nestled back against him; he could feel her breathing through her nightgown, the rise and fall of her stomach against his hand, her heartbeat even and gentle as he pulled her in closer, resting his face in her downy hair. She had gotten a haircut from Regis as well, he noticed, as her hair was somewhat shorter again, but it was still as soft as it had always been, thick with the smell of lavender and thyme.

“Geralt,” Shani whispered, causing him to open his eyes sleepily at the sound. “I’ve been thinking about… names. For the baby. What do you think of… Vlodomir? If it’s a boy.”

Geralt grunted, letting out a hard breath that ruffled her fluffy hair. “Fuck no.”

Shani laughed, and Geralt could not help a small smile as he felt the laughter shake through her form. “I had a feeling you’d hate it,” she admitted, still clearly pleased despite being shot down. “It just reminds me of… that night, at the wedding. When we danced together, and you looked so happy.” She paused at the thought, staring ahead, her thumb moving pensively over his hand on her stomach. “I’d never seen you happy like that before,” she admitted after a moment, her voice quieter, a bit more melancholy this time. “It was so nice to see you smile like that. Even if… it wasn’t really you, doing it.”

Geralt frowned, trying for a moment to think back to all the times he had spent with Shani, wondering if it was possible that she had never seen him smile before that night. “Been happy plenty of times,” he told her. “Just, hard to show it. Stunted emotions. Doesn’t mean I wasn’t happy. Always enjoy spending time with you.”

“Hm,” Shani answered, still sounding unconvinced. “Still, I wish you smiled more. Just you, without a ghost making you do it. I bet the baby would love to see your smile.”

Geralt thinned his lips, feeling a slight emptiness in the pit of his stomach at her request; he knew she had not meant to touch on his insecurities, but he still could not help feeling a bit put on the spot. He could force a smile if he had to, though he had seen his own forced smile in reflections before, and he hated how stilted and inhuman it looked when not prompted by something real. He had smiled for Ciri plenty of times, and for Yennefer more times than he could count, but being asked to smile on cue made him feel strange and broken all over again. “Thought you wanted a girl,” he said after a moment, hoping to move the conversation to something less sensitive. “Haven’t been thinking of girl names?”

“I have,” Shani answered, seeming content to move on as well. “But… I can’t think of any I like. Nothing seems right, no matter what I try.” She paused, her pretty brow furrowing, starting to chew her lip again as she thought. “What was your mother’s name, Geralt?” she asked after a moment, causing Geralt to blink in surprise.

“Mine?” he asked, still a bit stunned. “…Visenna. Don’t like that for a kid, either.”

Shani hummed at the name, before shaking her head. “No,” she agreed. “That’s not the name I’m looking for. I’ll… give it more thought. Something will come up eventually, I’m sure.” Letting out a soft huff at their futile effort, she clasped her hand more tightly over his on her stomach, before she pushed herself up onto her elbow, turning to press a soft kiss to his scruffy cheek. “Goodnight, Geralt,” she told him, fondly, smiling down at him in the bed beside her. Then, settling down again, she nestled back against him, pulling his hand around to rest on her stomach once more.

Geralt smiled at the doctor as she settled in, pulling her closer against his chest, before tucking his legs into the backs of her knees, letting her cross her dainty feet between his ankles to warm them. “Goodnight, Shani,” he told her, burying his face in her soft red hair again. Tomorrow would be another day, and he would figure out what to do about everything then, he decided – but for tonight, he was content to just be here, warm and clothed under the covers with Shani.


	17. Alstroemeria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (early) Valentine's Day to everyone who celebrates it, and Happy (early) Palentine's Day to everyone who doesn't! And as always, thank you so much for taking the time to read my fic - I hope you enjoy the chapter! ♡♡

It was a few more days before Shani allowed Geralt to remove the bandages from his neck, and he sighed in relief as he ran his hand over the healed-over skin, noting the lack of new scars. Scars were not usually something he cared about – in fact, he enjoyed most of the ones he had, as they reminded him of where he had been – but he had grown rather fond of the vampire-fang scars on his neck ever since Ciri had pointed them out, and he had worried the scratches from the hag might take their place once the bandages were removed. He was glad to see, then, that between Shani’s care and the Swallow, the hag’s nails had left barely a scratch, and he let out a satisfied grunt as he stared at his reflection in Yennefer’s vanity mirror.

He looked older than the last time he had observed his reflection, but he otherwise looked much the same as he had when they first moved to Corvo Bianco; he had been a man with a dream then, a fanciful dream of settling down in a fairy-tale province where no turmoil could reach them. He had found that dream predictably short-lived, with the age in his face as evidence of that, and he let out a small huff of resignation as he realized he had spent a good five minutes just staring at himself in the mirror. He had almost forgotten the way he looked, with his sharp nose, his thin lips, and his angled jaw, and he made a face as he turned his head, trying to imagine how any child would look with his features.

It would have to be a boy, he reasoned; a girl would look too severe, too unapproachable, and he grimaced as he thought about how cruel children could be, before shaking the thought from his head and getting up to leave the bedroom.

Triss and Dandelion were conversing in the front-room as he made his way into the hall, and Triss looked up quickly as she saw him enter, immediately curtailing her conversation to turn her attention to the witcher instead. “Geralt,” she greeted him, smiling brightly, causing Dandelion to turn and look back at him as well. “I was hoping you might come around sometime soon. I have something I need to give to you.”

“Hopefully not more books,” Geralt returned, dryly, moving to stand with the two of them. “Shani brought a ton into the house when she came. Can barely keep track of them all.”

Triss gave a silvery laugh at his joke, one that sounded just off enough to make him suspect it might be fake, before she reached up to pull something from around her neck, holding it up for him and the bard to see. It was a necklace, a golden chain featuring a crystalline disc in a gold-plated casing, and Geralt frowned as the sorceress took his hand from his side, pressing the jewellery into his palm. “It’s a portal amulet,” she told him, watching as he stared at the disc, feeling it radiate against his palm. “Yen and I have been working to perfect it while you’ve been healing from your last adventure. Between Yen’s mastery of portal spells, and my methods for converting magical effects into amulet-based alternatives—”

“Because of your potion allergy,” Geralt observed, looking up at her again.

Triss nodded, seeming pleased that he had remembered that detail. “Right,” she said, brightly. “Because of that, we decided to combine our magical expertise, and we’ve constructed an amulet which works as a portable portal of sorts—it’s not a perfect specimen, but we _have_ gotten it down to an accuracy of within a few miles of the projected destination. To activate the amulet and open the portal, you only need to touch it and speak the activation phrase – _va aép_ – then speak the name of the place you want to go, and envision the destination in your mind.”

“Fancy work,” Dandelion commented, raising his feathered brows and whistling. “Would love to get one of those for myself. Never know when you’ll need a quick way out of a sticky situation.”

“_Va aép_?” Geralt asked, smirking up at Triss. “Little on the nose for one of Yen’s spells.”

Triss shrugged, returning the smirk, seeming a bit flustered that he had pointed it out. “Yes, well, we were a bit pressed for time, as you can imagine,” she told him, still trying to sound nonchalant. “Anyway—the clearer the visual you have, the closer the portal will get you to it. If it’s someplace you haven’t been to yet, that admittedly gets a bit trickier… you would still speak the name of the place, but the spell will approximate the location to drop you off.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, narrowing his eyes. “Approximate me… inside a wall, you mean?”

Triss huffed, forcing a half-hearted chuckle. “Not… exactly,” she said, scrunching her nose at the bleak joke. “It’s been given a failsafe to ensure it deposits you in a place at _least_ as large as yourself. Which means you won’t be dropped inside a wall, _per se_—but a prison cell, or a crawlspace, or a pond… maybe.” She paused at the thought, before reaching out to take the amulet from his hand again, sliding it over his head and letting it fall to his chest, hanging just below his wolf medallion.

“If I’m being honest, I wouldn’t recommend using that function of the amulet _just_ yet,” she added, warily. “We haven’t had a chance to totally perfect that part of the enchantment, since we’ve only been working on it a few days. Just use it to take you to landmarks you _do_ know, for now—shouldn’t be too hard, since you’ve been almost everywhere—and in the meantime, we’ll work on perfecting the spell. Hopefully by the time you return from your second task.”

Geralt frowned at the mention of the second task, before glancing over at Dandelion to see if the bard had reacted at all, but Dandelion only looked surprised, offering a shrug, clearly lost on the topic. “Yen told you about that?” Geralt asked, looking back at Triss, finding it hard to believe. He had never known Yennefer to be particularly chatty when it came to sharing sensitive details, but he supposed another opinion on the matter could not hurt, as he and his wife had last left the topic at a stalemate.

Triss sucked her lip at the thought, glancing between Geralt and Dandelion, as if looking for the right answer. “Only that you couldn’t agree on a solution for it,” she admitted after a moment, honestly. “As you know, Yen isn’t exactly… _forthcoming_, when it comes to things like that.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, letting out a short breath. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

Triss nodded, looking pensive now, as if her mind were suddenly somewhere else, before she turned to look over at Dandelion again, offering him a polite smile, one she had clearly practiced during her time at court. “Dandelion,” she addressed him, sweetly. “Could you be a dear and go check up on Shani? Last I saw her, she was in the day-room with Regis, and… you know how that man can pontificate.”

Dandelion raised his brows at the request, looking a bit taken aback at having been asked, and he turned to look over at Geralt, as if hoping the witcher might offer some explanation. Geralt shrugged, having no idea what Triss wanted any more than the bard did, and Dandelion quickly nodded in response, before putting on a smile of his own, turning back to the sorceress. “I’ll see what I can do to rescue her,” he said, offering a cheery, toothy grin, before turning on his heel to head down the hall towards the day-room, leaving Geralt and Triss alone to talk.

Geralt frowned as he watched the bard depart, before letting out a grunt, turning to look at Triss again. “Don’t know if sending Dandelion is the best idea,” he observed, warily. “Just adding more fuel to the talkative fire.”

“I just needed him to leave for a bit so we could have some privacy,” Triss admitted, watching until Dandelion was completely out of sight. Then, turning to look at Geralt again, she took a deep breath, propping her hands anxiously on her hips. “There’s… something I’ve been needing to talk to you about,” she told him. “I don’t know how much Yennefer has told you, but…” She paused, her sentence trailing off, before she tucked her arms around her, taking another wary breath. “Lately, we’ve been trying to get back in contact with members of the Lodge,” she explained, cautiously. “It hasn’t been easy—a lot of our members are scared to regroup, after… Radovid, and the events at Deireadh prison. Our numbers have dwindled to almost nothing, and those who are left are understandably afraid. They think they’ll be the next to be targeted if they dare come out of hiding.”

“Heard something about that,” Geralt agreed. “Not much, though. Yen’s been pretty tight-lipped on the matter.”

“I’m not surprised,” Triss answered, letting out a short, exasperated huff at the news. “She probably just didn’t want to worry you. In truth, the results have been… disheartening. Francesca has ignored all my attempts to contact her… though that comes as no surprise, I guess. She’s turned all her attention to matters of her people, restoration efforts for Dol Blathanna after the end of the Winter War.” She stopped, her pink mouth twisting, trying to think of who else she had failed to connect with. “I don’t know where Keira is,” she admitted after a moment, wrinkling her freckled nose at the thought. “I’ve heard rumours, but… haven’t had any luck in trying to contact her. So far the only members I’ve convinced to return have been Yennefer, Fringilla, Ida, Philippa, and Margarita.”

“Ida?” Geralt asked, surprised to hear the name. “Thought she was helping Anna Strenger in the Blue Mountains.”

“She is,” Triss answered, nodding in agreement. “She’s only been in contact via teleprojection. She’s been helping our efforts as much as she can, but… there’s only so much she can do, from where she is.”

“Hm,” Geralt said, his brow furrowing. “Mention anything about Anna?”

Triss frowned, taking a moment to think. “Not… much,” she admitted after a while, sounding disappointed. “Though she did say Anna’s been showing improvement lately. Some sort of breakthrough, just in the last week or so. She has no idea what caused it, but… she says Anna’s doing much better now.”

Geralt nodded, almost certain he knew what had caused the improvement, but not wanting to speculate in front of Triss. “And the rest of you… all here in Toussaint?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at the unpleasant thought.

Triss nodded again. “Only recently,” she admitted. “And only most of us. Philippa should be joining us here soon. We figure Toussaint is as safe a place as any to convene – crime is low here, and anti-mage sentiment is nearly nonexistent. With Ciri in charge of Nilfgaard, living in its vassal states has become almost… tolerable.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered, unable to help wondering how long it had been since the Lodge had first set up operations in Toussaint. It seemed strange to him that he would have missed that entirely, but he realized he had no reason to know about it. He had put his trust entirely in what Yennefer had told him, and she had outright refused to speak to Fringilla in his presence. The reaction had seemed, at the time, a reasonable – if petty – response to his own actions, but now he could not help but wonder if the truth was far different, and if Yennefer had simply been doing everything in her power to keep knowledge of the Lodge from his sight.

“Six out of eight’s not bad,” he said, deciding not to voice his thoughts in front of Triss.

“Six out of nine,” Triss corrected, letting out a sigh. “Ciri is a member, too, technically speaking. And—Ida’s really only consulting, so it’s more like five. Five out of nine returning members. Which doesn’t sound _so_ bad, until you consider that our number of less than ten years ago was twelve. Five is less than half.”

Geralt grunted at the number, not quite sure how she expected him to react to news of the Lodge’s return. He had never been a fan of the Lodge to begin with, but he could tell its current status was disheartening to Triss. “What’re you hoping to accomplish by bringing back the Lodge?” he asked after a moment, unable to help himself. “Can’t say any good came of it last time.”

“We know more now, though,” Triss answered, quickly. “And there’s more need than ever now to keep watch over magical matters. There’s something going on, Geralt. None of us know exactly what, but—we can feel it, all of us… some shift, some change in the air.” She frowned as she said this, sliding her thumbnail across her lip, clearly resisting the urge to chew it in an endearing nervous habit. “Something is changing,” she added after a moment. “Altering… growing. And we need to be prepared for it. That’s what the Lodge is doing this time: trying to prepare as much as possible, for whenever that… _something_, happens.”

She paused again as she said this, her green gaze lowering for a moment to a slat in the floor, before she looked up at Geralt once more, her expression much graver this time, as if finally ready to speak the truth. “You remember the Conjunction of the Spheres?” she asked, causing Geralt to raise a brow at the question.

“Remember reading about it,” Geralt admitted, dryly. “Wasn’t around to see it.”

Triss huffed, waving a dismissive hand. “That’s what I meant,” she said, folding her arms again. “You remember the stories though, right? About reality colliding and tearing? The records of how it felt when the worlds convened, ripped each other apart, and things came pouring through?”

Geralt frowned at the question, thinking back to the books he had read on the subject over the years; the Conjunction had been part of his studies at Kaer Morhen, but he had never quite taken to it as a topic. It had always seemed strange and far-fetched, an event which held little relevance to the basis of their studies – something which explained how things came to be, but not how to deal with them now that they were. “Remember reading a book where they described it as ships at sea tossed into one another by a storm,” he finally said, figuring the least he could do was humour her.

“And what always comes before a storm?” Triss asked, her intensity almost palpable.

Geralt shrugged. “Change in the air,” he answered. “A shift. Feeling that something’s not right, and the sky’s about to open.” He paused, realizing how eerily familiar that sounded to what he had been feeling lately – the strange, inexplicable sensation that something was happening, though he could not quite put his finger on what. Shani had admitted to feeling it too, as had Yennefer, which meant it was not entirely in his head, but the thought of a simple bad feeling being the harbinger of a major calamity was still a bit too much for him to accept. “Can’t really be what you’re expecting,” he added, shaking his head at the thought. “Been no sign of anything lately that would indicate impending overlap. Things like that don’t just happen—there are signs. Warnings. Premonitions, at the very least.”

“As we’re well aware,” Triss returned, sounding annoyed that he would question her. “We don’t just make these claims up on gut feelings, Geralt—you’ll notice, this is the first you’re hearing about it. We’ve been keeping this information close to the chest until we’re absolutely sure it’s something to be concerned about.” She frowned, crossing her arms as she stared at him, looking much sterner than he could remember seeing her in recent years. “We’ve been keeping a close watch on the fabric of reality,” she said, her voice solemn as she explained. “That’s where Ida comes in. She’s an _Aen Saevherne_. A sage, or—oracle, depending on your translation. She was the one who first contacted us to let us know that something was amiss.”

Triss paused, thinning her lips as she tried to think of the best way to explain what she had been told. “We figured it had something to do with the near-Conjunction that happened during the Winter War,” she said after a moment, letting out a wary breath. “But… she said that wasn’t it. It was… something that only started happening a few months ago. Around the same time Shani moved in with you and Yen, if I’m remembering right. It was as if… everything had shifted at once, things that would usually take thousands—possibly _millions_ of years.”

“Shifted how?” Geralt asked, his brow furrowing deeper, still finding her story hard to believe. “Did Ida actually _see_ reality tearing?”

“Well… no,” Triss answered, her cheeks growing pink as she tried her hardest to still sound confident. “But she says the fabric feels… weaker, somehow. It feels… off. Different from usual.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, looking down again. “Seems like wild speculation to me. Bringing the Lodge together to prepare for an apocalypse because of a _feeling_ is—”

“Not the strangest thing the Lodge has done,” Triss admitted, frankly. She paused, letting out a long sigh, pulling her shoulders up until they nearly hugged her ears. “We figure it’s better to be prepared in the case of the worst than surprised when the worst happens unexpectedly,” she explained.

Geralt frowned at the explanation. “Still think it’s a lot to assume,” he admitted. “Better than the alternative, at least.”

“Which is?” Triss asked, looking up again in interest.

Geralt shrugged. “Getting back together just to piss me off.”

* * *

Yennefer was not in the library when Geralt went to look for her there, and he frowned, starting to make his way back through the house as he tried to think of where else he might find her. She had taken to avoiding him ever since their confrontation over Ciri’s Trial, and though he could not blame her, he found himself wondering if he might ever be able to have a normal conversation with her again. They had never been much for talking during the twenty-odd years of their relationship before marriage, but what talks they had had back then had been so much better than the fights over the last three months. It was like fire and ice with Yennefer these days – one day she seemed fine, and the next, she was upset again, and it only seemed to be getting worse as the date of Shani’s delivery crept closer.

He could not keep his mind from wandering at the thought, going back to what Triss had told him – about the shift in the air, the palpable change that was causing everyone to feel tenser than usual. It was a very real feeling, and one he could not help suspecting might be contributing to his and Yennefer’s fights of late, though he still found talk of a potential second Conjunction hard to swallow. Still, he could not help wondering what kind of world might follow such an event; there had been a near-collision of the spheres during the fight with the Hunt barely six months prior, with the frigid realm of the White Frost threatening to overtake their own, and while Ciri’s actions had prevented that from happening, the Continent was still not quite back to the way it had been before.

He supposed it was not so far-fetched to think that such an event might have done irreparable harm to the fabric of reality, but he quickly shook the thought from his mind, telling himself it was ridiculous to consider such things. The world was fine, he told himself – he and everyone around him were simply tired. It did not take a world-ending cataclysm to make people feel out of sorts when they had a baby on the way to do that for them.

The sound of lute music wafting from the breakfast nook was a welcome distraction from his thoughts, and he paused for a moment to glance inside, watching as Regis and Dandelion pored together over a leaf of parchment on the table. Dandelion dragged his teeth across his lip as he stared at the page, looking like a pensive schoolboy, and Regis hummed as he spun a feathered quill between his long fingers, scrutinizing the bard’s prose beside him. “Perhaps change out this word—‘knew’—for a different one. ‘Balanced’, perhaps,” Regis suggested. “It’s more accurate to the two of them, I think, and it flows better with the added syllables.”

Regis paused as he watched the bard scribble out the noted word, writing in the new one above it, before the vampire looked up, noticing Geralt standing in the entryway and offering him an amicable smile. “Have you come to help with our musical endeavour?” he asked, chuckling a bit at the thought.

Geralt snorted, shaking his head. “Can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” he answered. “You know that.”

“I _have_ heard you conversing in mermaid,” Regis agreed, his thin smile curling a bit wider at the memory. “Though ‘conversing’ is probably not the word for it. Bleating—perhaps. A rather unpleasant conversation for the mermaids.”

“Geralt!” Dandelion exclaimed, lifting his lute as he finally noticed the witcher standing in the entryway. “Come, listen! We’ve written more verses to that song you like so much.”

“Which one?” Geralt asked, making his way into the breakfast-nook and sitting down at the table with the two of them. “The one where I beat off to the princess behind her back, or the one where I fuck a teenager?”

Dandelion scoffed, splaying his fingers across the strings of his lute over his chest. “Don’t hate me for documenting what you’ve already done,” he said, giving an offended sniff. “Come on now, listen! I think you’ll like it. It’s my finest work to date, if I do say so myself.”

“Perhaps not quite yet,” Regis chuckled, giving the quill another thoughtful spin between his fingers. “It’s only two verses and a chorus, as yet. Perhaps wait until it’s a bit more complete.”

“Oh, what do you know about music?” Dandelion huffed, giving the vampire a good-natured glare. Then, holding up his lute again, he cleared his throat, before beginning in on his verse:

> “_Red hair like the rowan, a bud on the vine—healed all but his heart, for he had none to heal;  
__But years gave him sight, and they chanced reunite—and he found, suddenly, he had something to feel._
> 
> _O’fate, o’fate, from the humbl’est start—‘twixt a rowan so red, and a wand’ring heart;  
_ _A heroic yarn, or a fearful spell—o’fate, only time will tell._
> 
> _But witcher he was, and witcher he stay’d—though he longed for a life where his foils could rest;  
_ _For a simpler life, with a vineyard and wife—for the fair lilac lover who balanced him best.  
_ _Yet he knew in his heart that the peace couldn’t last—for wherever there’s monsters, there’s always a need;  
_ _And such work did arise, though there came a surprise—the return of his rowan, a-bloom with his seed!_
> 
> _O’fate, o’fate, from the humbl’est start—‘twixt a rowan so red, and a wand’ring heart;  
__A heroic yarn, or a fearful spell—o’fate, only time will tell._”

Geralt frowned at the end of the song, trying hard not to make a face during Dandelion’s performance, and the bard looked up with a smile as he finished, pressing his hand excitedly to the bridge of his lute. “Well?” he asked. “Do you like it? I’m trying to record events as they occur. It might take me a bit to catch up to where we are, but it’s a challenge I’m prepared to undertake.”

“Told you I didn’t want you turning this thing with Shani into a song,” Geralt returned, frustrated. “Don’t want the whole world knowing our business. Bad enough that you turn everything else into verse.”

Dandelion’s gleeful expression immediately fell at the witcher’s words, and he lowered his lute to his lap, pushing the parchment aside towards Regis again. “So what did you come in here for, Geralt?” he asked, lifting his chin with an affronted sniff. “If it was to hurt my feelings, then I’d say you’ve succeeded masterfully.”

“Not specifically,” Geralt answered. “Was looking for Yen. Hoped you two might’ve seen her.”

“Not for a little while,” Regis admitted, turning to glance towards the manor’s front door. “Last I saw her, she was headed for the garden. You might still catch her out there, if she hasn’t returned.”

“Thanks, Regis,” Geralt said, getting up from the table again. Then, pausing, he turned to Dandelion, before pointing to the paper still sitting in front of Regis. “Tune’s good,” he told him. “Just maybe leave out the part about my… seed. And don’t perform it anywhere until after everything’s done. Don’t want this spreading further than it already has.”

“A-hah!” Dandelion beamed, perking up instantly with a gleeful grip on his lute. “I _told_ you you liked the song! Though you can’t dictate art, Geralt. The lyrics will go where they will.”

Geralt sighed at the bard’s predictable answer, before turning to leave the nook again, making his way instead for the door of the manor and heading out across the grounds to the garden.

Yennefer was sitting on a bench in the garden when Geralt found her, just as Regis had said she might be, and he paused as he started to approach, wondering if now was truly the best time to disturb her. She looked to be deep in thought, her expression distant, watching as a butterfly flapped lazily on a rose-petal, and he cleared his throat quietly as he took another step closer, hoping to get her attention without startling her.

“Yen—”

“If you’ve come to insult me again, Geralt, I wish you wouldn’t,” Yennefer interrupted him, coldly. She pursed her lips as she answered, refusing to look at him, and he let out a long sigh, realizing this would be harder than anticipated.

“Didn’t come to insult you,” Geralt returned, honestly. “Came to talk. Triss told me about Ida. Her predictions.”

Yennefer paused, seeming to debate for a moment whether or not to take the bait. “About how she assumes we’re to have another apocalypse?” she finally guessed, letting out an incredulous huff. She frowned, crossing her leg over her knee and bouncing her foot in an irritated rhythm, and Geralt watched as she sucked her lip, seeming to be deciding how best to answer. “The fabric of reality is always in flux,” she said after a while, sounding annoyed to have to explain it. “A weakening or strengthening of it day by day is not a harbinger of the end of times. People mess with reality every day in their attempts to channel chaos to their bidding—hydromancy, haruspicy, goëtia. It’s not commendable, but humans have never historically looked out for their own best interests. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if your demon friend’s reappearance in this plane coincided with Ida’s first vision.”

“Not my friend,” Geralt answered, moving to sit cautiously on the bench beside his wife. “Timeline seems right, though. Said he’d only come back recently when I talked to him in the forest.”

Yennefer huffed, pursing her lips again, seeming to ignore her husband’s commentary. “One being coming through from another plane is hardly the start of an apocalypse,” she added, annoyedly. “But the others never see fit to listen when I point that out. They keep bringing up the Wild Hunt as a counterpoint. And while yes, the Hunt _did_ try to cause a second Conjunction in an effort to bring the Aen Elle to our plane, they were ultimately unsuccessful. As I keep telling the other members, it takes much more than the efforts of one being – even several beings – to break the Spiral at that level.”

Geralt frowned, thinking back to the battle with the Hunt, remembering the way the sky had threatened to split over the battlefield; remembering the deathly, otherworldly cold against his skin as he crossed swords with Eredin for the final time. It had taken the efforts of an army to push them back enough to allow Ciri to do her part, but it had ultimately been Ciri who had stopped the Conjunction, Ciri who had leapt through the portal to face the White Frost. Yet, Yennefer was right – it took more than the efforts of one to start the wheels turning on such an apocalyptic scale, and he could not help wondering if the same was true in the other sense, and if the efforts of one were truly enough to stop the wheels once they were in motion.

Yennefer did not seem to notice his expression, and she wrinkled her nose in disdain, thinning her lips in an icy line as she focused on her own train of thought. “Suffice to say, I have my doubts about the Lodge’s concerns,” she added, shaking her head. “I just don’t think a slight weakening of the fabric is enough to call an entire Lodge summit over.”

“What about Triss’ artefact?” Geralt asked, folding his hands between his knees. “That enough to call a summit over? Or don’t think that’s a big deal, either?”

Yennefer paused at the question, taking a deep breath and holding it, as if in an effort to calm her nerves. “The plate was… surprising,” she admitted after a moment, letting out her breath again in a long exhale. “I hadn’t expected to see another one. In truth, I’d nearly forgotten about yours until she showed me hers. I’d wanted to ask you about it, but… Triss asked me not to. She wanted to be respectful of Eskel’s request.” She frowned, pursing her lips, before letting out another wary huff of breath. “…Though I suppose our efforts were in vain regardless,” she added. “As you got wind of it somehow. As you always do.”

Uncrossing her legs again, she smoothed her jacket, ensuring it had not creased, before she let out another sigh, looking over at Geralt for the first time in their conversation. “Either way, I wasn’t keeping these things from you because I thought you would object, or because they were some great secret,” she told him. “I was merely trying to be respectful of Triss’ wishes, and… well. The other thing I simply didn’t think was to be taken seriously at all.” She let out a soft huff at the last thought, folding her hands in her lap as she looked out towards the garden again.

“I’ve spent enough time around you and your nonsense that I’ve learned to be a bit more sceptical of such things,” she explained. “Though I suppose I should apologize for keeping you in the dark. I hadn’t meant to deceive you, but it seems that’s what happened, anyway.”

“No need to apologize,” Geralt told her, causing her to look over at him again, furrowing her brow. “Would’ve done the same thing, in your shoes. Couldn’t take Triss’ Conjunction story seriously, either.” He paused as he finished, pressing his fingertips together, before taking another deep, steeling breath. “Speaking of apologies—”

“Don’t bother, Geralt,” Yennefer answered, quickly. “I’ve heard it all before.”

“No. Please, Yen. Just listen.”

Yennefer held her breath at his plea, before finally letting out a resigned sigh, turning to face him with a painstaking stare. “Go on, then,” she told him, sounding already bored. “I’m listening. Go on and apologize.”

Geralt faltered at the icy invitation, but held his ground, not letting himself be put off by her tone; she had every reason to doubt his sincerity, he knew, but he was determined to prove her wrong. “I’m sorry, Yen,” he began, causing her to roll her eyes at the expected lead-in. “Know I’ve said that before. Lots of times. Been pretty bad at keeping track. Guess I’ve said it so many times that… kinda lost its meaning. Doesn’t hold much weight anymore. But…” He paused, thinning his lips into a hard gash, taking another deep breath to steady himself.

“Can’t… let that be how it is anymore,” he said, causing her to look up again, tentatively interested. “Can’t just say ‘sorry’ and expect it to fix things. Not living day by day anymore. We’re not ‘you’ and ‘me’ anymore, we’re… ‘us’. Can’t keep breaking that and expecting it to be okay. Guess we… spent so long thinking of ourselves as two people who could never be happy, that we… never figured out how to be.”

“That’s very profound of you, Geralt,” Yennefer answered, still sounding unmoved by his speech.

“Not trying to be profound,” Geralt answered, trying not to be annoyed by her cynicism. “Just trying to be honest. Only ever knew how to live, how to survive. Us against death, never us against… life. Never figured out how to give and take. Only take, and take, and take.” He frowned at the thought, staring down at his hand, at the wedding-band around his finger, and he could almost feel Yennefer’s gaze softening a bit as she watched him, waiting for him to say something else. “That’s what marriage is, though,” he continued, letting out a soft sigh. “A balancing act. Back and forth. Guess I thought getting married would just be… same as always, just with rings. But it’s not. It’s something else entirely.”

Geralt paused again, staring down at his ring, before he shook his head, letting his hand fall to his side again. “I get now why you wouldn’t marry me for so long,” he said, looking up at Yennefer again. “I’m not a good husband, Yen. Don’t know how to be. But I wanna learn. Wanna _try_. Wanna be better, because…” He swallowed, feeling a dryness in his throat as he stared across at Yennefer, meeting her gaze; she was silent now, all anger gone from her face, her posture softer, less rigid than it had been before. “Because… that’s what you deserve,” he told her. “Deserve the world from me, and I… need to learn how to give it to you. And if you’re angry at me for not walking away from O’Dimm and taking his first deal…”

He stopped, bracing his lips, taking in a deep, thoughtful breath through his nose. “Wouldn’t blame you for it,” he said, shaking his head wearily at the thought. “Angry at myself. Just wish… none of this’d happened. Wish it could all go back to the way it was. Before O’Dimm… before any of this.”

Yennefer paused as he finished, taking a moment to stare at him, absorbing all he had said, before she let out a soft sigh of her own, dropping her gaze to her lap and shaking her head. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to walk away from O’Dimm,” she told him, smoothing her trousers thoughtfully as she spoke. “He’s evil, and I don’t trust his motives. I don’t doubt there would’ve been something just as bad waiting for you if you’d allowed him his freedom unchecked.”

“Then what can I do to make this up to you?” Geralt insisted, sliding a bit closer on the bench. “Tell me. Anything. I’ll do it.”

“Anything?” Yennefer asked, looking up again.

Geralt nodded. “Anything at all,” he answered, earnestly.

Yennefer took a deep breath, turning her violet gaze to rest on the flower garden instead. “Stop trying to make it up to me,” she told him, the starkness of her answer taking him by surprise. Geralt faltered, staring at his wife for a moment, sure he had heard her incorrectly – but she soon turned to look at him again, her expression firm, making him realize he had heard her exactly. “There’s nothing you can do to make it up to me,” she repeated. “That’s not a punishment, it’s just the truth. Things have changed, and they’ll never be the same again. That doesn’t mean things can’t still be good, possibly even better. Only that… things are different, now. That’s just how it is, and no one can change that.”

Geralt frowned, wanting to argue, but found he had nothing to say. Yennefer was absolutely right: something had changed in their dynamic with the addition of Shani, and even if she were to leave after her child’s birth, they would never be completely the same again. He had altered something with his actions, something that itched at both of their hidden longings, bringing them both something they had wanted so much – him, a sense of adventure in a life stagnant with wine and pâté, and her, the opportunity to prepare for a new life being brought into the world. He had laid those things out before them, tempting them until it became too much to bear, giving in even with the horrible knowledge that it would all disappear again once the tasks were complete.

They had exposed themselves, he realized; him, showing that he would never be quite satisfied with a life of peace and quiet, and Yennefer, that she would never be quite satisfied with the children in her life until the child she held was her own.

Yennefer took another deep breath, seeming just as lost in thought as her husband, before she rested her hands together in her lap, staring down at the ring on her own slender finger. “If you want the truth…” she said, causing him to look up again, only for her to pause, seeming unsure what to say. She frowned, her pretty brow creasing, before she thinned her ruby lips, taking another breath to try again. “I’m hurt, Geralt,” she told him, letting out a sigh that sounded like a release of all the air in her lungs. “That’s really all there is to it. I’m hurt that you moved on so quickly after we separated— even though I said you could. I’m aware I did. Which is why I’ve been trying to be understanding all this time. You did nothing wrong, technically speaking. I suppose…”

She paused again, her lips pursing, seeming unsure where she meant to go with her statement. “I suppose… I’d just hoped you might resist, and wait for me to return,” she admitted after a moment, self-consciously. “That you might take the time to consider what went wrong that we became so empty without Ciri around to fulfil us.”

She stared at her hands in her lap, seeming unwilling or unable to meet her husband’s eyes, before she finally swallowed back a difficult breath, curling her hands in towards her as she pressed her knees anxiously together. “For so long, at the beginning, we were bound by… sex. Just sex,” she continued, surprising Geralt to hear her go on. “I suppose it was refreshing for a while, having someone captivated by my beauty, rather than just wanting to use me for my magical ability. You were different, and I liked that. You liked me for _me_. Or, the me I had created. I _wanted_ to be adored for that. But… I realized quickly that was all we had in common, and… I couldn’t help myself. I wanted more.”

She paused again, sucking her lip, before she finally furrowed her brow, standing from the bench to take a few anxious steps towards the nearest floral arch. “It was… surprising that you didn’t run away when I began to share more of myself with you,” she admitted after a moment, her voice quieter. “My hopes, my dreams, my interests in… unusual topics. My anger, my pain. The ugly side of my duties to the Lodge. You weren’t… thrilled, to know those things, but you listened. You learned. Then along came Ciri, and I…” She stopped, trailing off again, her violet eyes falling to the flowers as she thought back to the first time she had laid eyes on Ciri – the cantankerous little sparrow she had been brought in to train, but had eventually come to love more than life itself.

“I suppose… I became willing to overlook a lot of things, if only to have both of you in my life,” she admitted after a moment. “A man who listened, and a daughter who I could shape, could teach… could protect as if she were my own, even though I knew in my heart she wasn’t.” She stopped again, her lips pursing, trying to hide a faint tremble she refused to let shake her composure, and Geralt listened in silence, realizing how rare it was to hear insight like this from his wife. Yennefer had no shyness of words on a regular basis, but they were usually used to give what-for to those who frustrated her, and he furrowed his brow, wondering if he might never have heard any of this had he let her turn him away with her initial cold shoulder.

“I… want children more than anything Geralt,” Yennefer continued after a moment, causing him to look up again, his expression lifting. “You know I always have. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. And I… selfishly cast Ciri in that role. I didn’t consider what weight it might put on her, or how it would affect me when she was finally gone. I knew she’d have to go eventually, but it just… never occurred to me it would be so soon.” She fell silent again at the thought, staring out towards the garden, before she finally lowered her head, crossing her arms to hold herself tightly.

“You know I love Shani, Geralt,” she told him, shaking her head so her dark hair fell over her shoulder, hiding her face. “She’s a good woman. She’s smart, and kind, and surprisingly funny, for someone of her profession. And every day I tell myself I’m happy for her, and for you, and for the child you have together. It’s a wonderful thing to be witness to, and I wouldn’t take it away from her for the world. But…”

Yennefer trailed off, pursing her lips as she took a deep breath, holding back a surge of emotion, and Geralt pushed himself up from the bench, taking a wary step closer as he saw her shoulders lock, doing their best not to shake. “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing her hair behind her ear as she took another unsteady breath. “It’s just… so hard to smile sometimes, knowing the only children in my life will never be my own. Watching someone else have a baby with _my husband_, something I’ve wanted for so long—something you’ve _known_ I’ve wanted for so long…” She stopped, letting out a laboured breath, before she reached out a hand to the nearby archway, holding onto it as if to ground herself as she looked back towards her husband again.

“Sometimes… I do wish she’d never come,” she admitted, trying hard to hold back the start of tears, but Geralt could tell how badly they wanted to fall, how pink her eyes had become in resisting them. “That we’d never known you’d gotten her pregnant at all. Which is… _so_ selfish of me. I know that. But…” She paused, sucking her lip as she curled her fingers into the twisting stems of the arch. “I can’t help wondering if I might not have had you all to myself,” she admitted after a moment, her voice shaking a bit, quieter. “A clean break from the world, just like you promised, had Shani never come around. I wish no ill will on her – please don’t mistake this for that – and I’m happy to provide whatever she needs for her child. But…”

She trailed off again, before looking down to the cobblestones, unable to keep eye contact with her husband as she spoke. “I can’t help but wonder if her arrival might not have sparked something in you,” she admitted, almost a whisper this time. “Some… reminder, of what you left behind. And I wonder, too, had you never gotten that reminder… if you might not have been satisfied with what you had.” She fell silent at this, staring down at the walkway, before she finally looked up to meet his gaze again, and he felt his heart clench as he saw her eyes, earnest and vulnerable in their softness. He had not seen this side of her in quite some time, a side not hidden behind a pane of protective glass; a chilly divider meant to separate her fragile heart from a world that refused to know her.

“I know this life isn’t adventurous, or dangerous, or even particularly eventful,” Yennefer said after a moment, giving a soft huff. “But… it’s a life I got to have with you, and no one else, for however short a time. And I can’t help but be more than a bit jealous that you’ve allowed someone else to take that from me.”

Geralt frowned as she continued, not knowing what to say, feeling his heart sink deeper with every word – he had not realized just how much his actions had hurt her, but now he saw there was so much more going on than he imagined. She had seemed so eager to help Shani, so insistent on taking her in and giving her everything she needed, that he never would have guessed that her true feelings were not the same as the ones she presented so adamantly. Still, he had to remember that she was only human, and there was only so much she could bear; only so many false smiles she could hide behind until she broke like anyone else.

“The day Shani arrived to Corvo Bianco… she said she never would have come, had she not known the child was yours,” Yennefer continued, causing Geralt to look up again in surprise, having become distracted by his own thoughts. “And I couldn’t help feeling – in that one, awful moment – that I wished she’d never realized it was yours, and that she’d continued to raise it on her own, without involving either of us in its life. It’s so selfish of me to even _think_ about a world where you’d never know your son. I _know_ it is. But…”

She took a deep breath, before turning to look at him again, straightening her posture and lifting her chin, proudly. “I’m tired of not being honest,” she told him, her voice wavering slightly, despite her determined stance. “I wish the child were mine, and that you’d never slept with Shani. I don’t like to admit it, but… now you know.”

Geralt stared at his wife for a moment, not sure how to respond to any of what she had said – she was finally being honest, which was what he had wanted, but now he had no idea what to say to her. The thought of his actions hurting her so badly ate at him, gnawing at his insides until they ached with guilt, and he swallowed a lump in his throat, taking a deep breath as he crossed his arms, preparing to speak. “Could… cause a miscarriage,” he suggested, the words like knives across his tongue as he spoke. It was a vile thought, one he could barely believe had come from him, and he tasted bitterness in his mouth as he swallowed, urging himself to continue. “Regis knows how to… brew a potion. Could… put it in her drink. Make it look like an accident—”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Yennefer told him, looking up at him with frigid eyes. “It isn’t funny. Especially after what happened with that sorceress the other week.”

“I wasn’t—” Geralt started to say, only to stop again as he saw his wife straighten, bristling.

“I said I don’t want to hear it,” Yennefer snapped, and Geralt quickly closed his mouth, glad to stop. “That’s the end of it. I’ll not stoop to anything so wicked just to sweep clean one of your mistakes.” The sorceress huffed, leaning back against the archway, tilting her head so her dark hair curled around the climbing petals. “I don’t want a child so desperately that I would kill another woman’s child to get it,” she told him, harshly. “And you don’t really know me at all if you think I would even consider it. Even for a moment. …Though I suppose I don’t really know you all that well, either, if you would suggest it. I thought you better than that, Geralt.”

“I _am_ better,” Geralt answered, looking up at her again, sternly. “But I love you. Do anything for you, Yen. Even things you might hate me for. Don’t want to harm Shani’s baby – ‘course I don’t – but if you asked me to do it…” He paused, considering the spiteful thought, before shaking his head with a long sigh. “Dunno,” he admitted. “Done plenty of awful things. All so I can get one more day with you. Don’t regret any of them. Don’t think you understand that, Yen. Do anything for you.”

“I don’t _want_ that, Geralt!” Yennefer shot back, causing his brows to shoot up at the intensity of her objection. “I don’t _need_ that! Don’t you understand? I don’t _need_ you to be prepared to kill a child for me, for Melitele’s sake!” She scoffed, folding her arms tightly, before unfolding them again just as quickly, flustered and angry. “Why is this so hard for you to comprehend?” she insisted, the pitch of her voice rising a bit in exasperation. “All I ask is that you want to _be_ with me, and don’t make me doubt that every day. I want to feel like a priority to you, rather than the wife you come home to begrudgingly between contracts. Sometimes I feel you’d rather be with the monsters than with me. I don’t want to feel that way anymore.”

Geralt faltered, feeling a bit as if the wind had been knocked from him at her words, and he tightened his lips to a stark line, waiting in humbled silence for her to continue. He had nothing of value to add, nothing to say to argue her points – she was right, and he was ashamed he had not had the sense to realize it before. He had been so willing to go to hell and back for her that he had overlooked the smaller steps along the way, and he lowered his gaze to the ground, resting his hands on his hips as he waited for her to speak again.

Yennefer took a long breath in his silence, brushing a hand back through her flustered hair, before she let out her breath again in a tired sigh, returning her hands wearily to her hips. “I know you have to go soon,” she told him, her voice much quieter than before, surprising him with its softness. “And I don’t want you to leave with us having just fought. If something happened to you afterward… I’d never forgive myself.” She paused, allowing her gaze to drift again as she tried to think of what to say, before she took another deep breath, her pretty brow furrowing as she stared out over the garden.

“Before you go, I’d… like to know one thing,” she told him, speaking quietly, so soft he had to lean in a bit to hear her. “It’s… something that’s been on my mind lately, though I’ve never asked about it before. I’d never truly _wanted_ to know before, honestly… I’d never really cared that much in most instances, but…” She paused again, her lips thinning, before she turned to look back at Geralt again, her eyes solemn as she stared across at him in earnest. “Why?” she asked, her voice so quiet he barely recognized it as her own. “Why did you sleep around so much during the years we were together? I know you’ve told me that witchers have increased libido, and it’s only in your nature, but… why did you do it anyway, knowing how much it would hurt me if I ever found out? And I always find out, Geralt. You’re terrible at keeping secrets. It’s one of the things I love most about you.”

Geralt frowned at the observation, remembering all the times Yennefer had read him like a book at the worst possible moments – times he had suspected her of reading his mind, when in reality it seemed she had simply figured out how to read his indecipherable expressions. “So why did you do it?” she pressed, her tone softer now, vulnerable, almost pleading. “Was it because of me? Was it because I wasn’t enough to keep you happy?”

Geralt felt his gut clench at her words, a cold, sick sensation creeping over him as he stood before her; he had grown so used to her scolding, her barbs, that to see her like this was almost too much to bear. He had caused this, he knew – he had broken her heart, and now he was being forced to answer for it, and he felt guilt resting heavy on his chest as he stared at her, trying to think of what to say. There was nothing _to_ say, he realized— she was right, and she had every reason to be upset with him, as there was no explanation that justified the way he had treated her over the years. He had only ever thought of her after everything was done – an afterthought, just as she had said before Triss’ arrival. Not once had his mind gone to her before the act, stopping him from saying yes. Stopping him from giving in, from taking of others without restraint, from hurting her in ways no one deserved to be hurt, over and over again.

He was seen as an animal because he acted like an animal, but even animals were habitually loyal to their mates, and he was surprised, looking back, that this was the first time she had sat him down, forcing him to talk like this. Forcing him to examine the way he had acted towards her over the years they had been together. Asking him what he felt justified the way he had treated her in all that time. Her, the woman he had convinced himself he could never live without. The woman he, within hours of meeting, had bound to himself, potentially forever. The woman whose destiny he had forced to entwine with his own, only to betray her at every turn.

“Yen…” Geralt started to say, only to realize he had no words. “…No. That’s not it.”

“Then what, Geralt?” Yennefer insisted, quietly. “Why? Why did you do it?”

“I had amnesia,” Geralt said, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them. “No memory of you. Nothing to compare to. Nothing to know I was missing.”

“And the other times?” Yennefer returned, not satisfied, taking a step away from the floral arch. “The times when you didn’t have amnesia? Before Ciri brought us back, and then after you regained your memories?”

Geralt’s frown deepened at the questions, realizing he had no ground to stand on. “Don’t… know,” he finally answered, knowing there was no other way around it. Yennefer wanted honesty, and after everything he had put her through, he felt she deserved it. He was determined to give her the truth now, even if it meant breaking everything he had fought so hard to build – everything he had gained with her over the months since the Hunt, ever since their lives had been thrown into flux by Ciri’s leaving.

“Guess… just blind to what I had to lose,” Geralt admitted after a moment, quietly. “When you’re told your whole life no one wants you, then suddenly people do… feels good. Feels _damn_ good. At least for a moment. Then, once it’s over…” He stopped, his expression twisting, trying to find words for something he had never spoken aloud. “Easy to get addicted,” he said after a moment, letting out a breath. “Crave it. Give in, at whatever opportunity. Knew I shouldn’t, but… couldn’t help myself. Like a starving dog, put in front of a feast. When somebody wants you like that… hard not to just… take everything you’re given. Even knowing what’s at risk. Knowing you might lose the one thing you need most because of it.”

He fell silent again as he said this, before his gaze began to lower, finding it impossible to keep eye contact with his wife; it hurt to admit any of this, but he was sure whatever pain he felt was nothing compared to hers. Yennefer scowled at the answer, taking a moment to think before answering back. “You know I know how that feels,” she told him, shortly. “To be wanted by no one, and then suddenly everyone.”

“I know,” Geralt answered, looking up again. “But you were also never told you couldn’t feel emotions. Harder to realize you’ve got something to lose when you’re told you don’t have it in the first place.” He frowned, surprised by his own confession, but he knew he was not done speaking yet. “Warps your perception,” he added, solemnly. “Hard to unlearn after a hundred years of believing it. But… feel like I always knew, a little bit. Always something lingering at the back of my mind. Witchers aren’t monsters, as much as people say they are. We’re people too, and we fuck up. Like anyone else.”

He let out a hard breath at his words, running an anxious hand through his hair as he stared at the ground; he could feel his heart racing, but he realized that it was finally time to face the truth. “There’s no excuse for it,” he added after a moment, looking up again and extending an exasperated hand. “Had no control. Fucked around on everyone. Fucked Dandelion’s friend Essi, and he never knew. Fucked Shani, when she was only seventeen. Fucked Iola, Nenneke’s protégé, after the Temple took me in to help me. Even after the archpriestess said it wasn’t appropriate—didn’t care. Fucked her anyway.”

Geralt ground his teeth as he continued, feeling guilt start to bubble in his chest like burning oil, but he swallowed the feeling down, taking another breath as he prepared to keep going. “Fucked Triss, and Fringilla, and Coral,” he went on, hearing his own voice shake faintly for the first time. “Even fucked Coral’s apprentice, Mozaïk. Didn’t even want to, just did. Just to see Coral squirm. And she did squirm—right before she mutilated that poor girl. Because of me. Fucked Diedre…” He stopped at the mention of Diedre, holding his breath for a moment, before letting it out again in a remorseful sigh. “Still regret that, to this day,” he added, quieter. “Should never’ve done that to her. Or Eskel.”

Geralt paused again as he finished, before looking up, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten as he watched Yennefer’s expression: the thinning of her lips, the stiffness of her jaw as she gritted her teeth, listening to his list. She hated to hear this as much as he did, he knew, and he wished he could wipe the air clean of it, banish it – but that was not the way things worked, and now he had to stand and face his failures, stand in the midst of his actions and hold them on his shoulders in full view of the woman he loved.

“I can’t tell if this is an apology, or a list of conquests,” Yennefer admitted after a moment, her tone frigid.

“It’s an apology,” Geralt answered, shortly, annoyed at the hard response. “Just saying – even when we weren’t together… still hurt people. Not just you. I was a terrible friend, Yen—a terrible person. Didn’t deserve any of the people who loved me back then. Wouldn’t deserve them now, if I was still the same—but I’m not. Not that person anymore.” He took a deep breath, starting to feel warmth returning to his cold extremities; he could feel his hands shaking with nerves, but he held them to his sides, pressing them to his trousers to still them. “Don’t want to be that person anymore,” he told her. “But can’t keep blaming myself for the person I was. That person is gone, Yen. He’s never coming back. And neither are the horrible things he did.”

Geralt paused, staring a moment as his wife, waiting for some reaction to any of what he was saying, but she only stood as still as before, her hand resting patiently on the floral arch as she waited for him to continue. “Can’t change unless you let me,” he told her, his voice quieter now, feeling his heart inching towards his throat as he spoke. “Not asking you to forgive me. What I did. Know I’ve talked myself blue trying to justify it before. But there’s no justification. I was a bad person. Didn’t care what I did, who I hurt with it. But I’m not that person anymore. And all I can ask is for you to give me a chance to be better going forward.”

He stopped, staring across at Yennefer, letting a moment of hopeful silence fall between them at his plea, before a sudden sense of lightness began to creep over him, a murmur in his chest at the sight of her standing before him. She was here, he realized – she was _his_ – and he was the luckiest man on the Continent for it. He was married to _Yennefer of Vengerburg_, and he swelled with pride, shocked the thought had never quite struck him that way before. “Never loved anyone the way I love you,” he told her, causing her raise her brows at the claim, warily. “Even Fringilla couldn’t change my mind. Couldn’t stop thinking about you the whole time I was with her.”

Yennefer frowned at this, but he could sense a certain curiosity in her features this time, and he grinned, taking a few steps closer across the garden path and leaning in to her until his lips nearly brushed her ear. “Even called her by your name a few times,” he whispered. “Don’t think she was too happy about that.”

Yennefer’s cheeks turned pink at this, but she held her expression, unwilling to give a reaction. “I’m insulted you would make that mistake,” she returned, trying to hide the faintest vindication in her voice. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Geralt’s grin widened. “Thought it might,” he answered. “Since it was in the bedroom.”

Yennefer pursed her lips, considering. “Well… it does,” she admitted after a moment, letting out a huff. “Serves her right, covetous bitch. That will certainly make it easier to face her next I see her.”

Geralt bit his tongue, holding back from laughing in surprise at the sorceress’ answer – he did not want her thinking he was enjoying this too much, not when they finally seemed to be on the same page. Gathering her silky hair off her shoulder, he leaned in, kissing her ivory skin, trailing his lips from her shoulder to her collar-bone as he breathed in her florid scent. Yennefer hummed as he kissed her, leaning stiffly into his hand as he slid it across her back, before she tilted back her head, allowing him to kiss his way across her chest, up her neck and over her jawline.

“I’m upset with you, Geralt,” she told him, sternly, biting her lip as she felt his beard tickle her cheek.

“I know,” Geralt answered, his breath hot against her skin. “I deserve it.”

Kissing his way across her face, he made his way to her flowery lips, tilting her chin up with a touch of his hand as he kissed her, tasting the fragrance of White Wolf on her tongue. Cupping his other hand around her breast, he squeezed it, gently, massaging it in his palm, causing her to gasp softly into his lips as he found her delicate nipple. He rubbed his thumb in gentle circles over her blouse, coaxing her nipple to attention, before he moved his other hand down her slender waist, prying her pants open just enough to slide his hand down into her panties. Yennefer gave a soft moan as he entered her with his fingers, her teeth scraping gently across his lower lip as he kissed her, and he pressed inside her, feeling her breath in his mouth as she rocked into the motion of his touch.

“Don’t think you’ll soften me up with this,” Yennefer breathed, giving another low moan and shudder, before leaning into him as he repeated the motion, sliding up inside her.

Geralt grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he answered, reaching up to unlace her jacket next, coaxing it open with his one free hand and starting to slide it down her slender shoulders. Kissing her fingers first, he moved next to her shoulder, before making his way down to her breasts, dragging her blouse down with his thumb to let them bound freely into the crisp garden air. Kissing his way around one breast, he teased her rosy nipple with his teeth, before moving to nip at the other one, his mouth wet and hungry against her skin as he worked deftly with his fingers between her legs.

“Geralt,” Yennefer gasped, before moaning again, shuddering as she leaned into her husband’s touch, and Geralt kissed her collar-bone, her shoulder, clearing her hair from her neck to kiss his way around the back. He hummed low in his throat as he felt her give a jolt of pleasure against his hand, before he pulled his wet hand from her pants, watching as she opened her eyes to look up at him with surprised disappointment. Her expression did not have time to last, however, before he picked her up around the thighs, hoisting her up to wrap her legs around his waist, smacking her playfully on the ass as he began to carry her towards the flower-laden gazebo.

Yennefer yelped in surprise as she was spanked, before laughing merrily, folding her arms around her husband’s neck, kissing every part of his face she could reach as she let him carry her wherever he chose. Scaling flowers covered the inner walls of the gazebo, choking all but a few beams of light from reaching the petal-laden floor, and Geralt stepped over piles of petals as he carried his wife to the gazebo swing, sitting her down gently and kissing her neck as she reached to take hold of the ropes. She could feel heat wafting off his lap in waves as he kneeled down in front of her, the eager outline of his cock pulling the lacing of his trousers taut, and she kissed his cheek, reaching down to tease him as she traced her fingers along the edge of his bulge.

She smirked as he let out a soft gasp, choking a bit at the strain of holding everything in, before he reached up, pulling her pants down her thighs and sliding her panties down over her knees to meet them. Yennefer gripped the ropes of the swing as he grabbed her ass with his sturdy hands, pressing his face into her warmth as she moaned, her toes curling inside her pointed boots. He was a master, and she could not keep her thighs from shuddering in his grasp, allowing a shock of pleasure to course through her as she felt his talented tongue inside her. She bit her lip as he worked, raking her teeth across the soft skin until it paled, letting out little gasps and keens as she rolled her head back, letting her long hair sweep off her neck.

His hands were rough and reassuring on her body, his sounds low and animal beneath her, arousing her, the warmth of his breath inside her making her thighs grow wet with excitement; she moaned as he worked, shuddering again, before her body gave a faint jolt, growing rigid for a moment in his grasp, and he let out a low, rumbling hum from between her legs as she felt the brush of his wet beard against the inside of her thighs. “Don’t stop,” she begged, reaching down to run her hands through his wild hair. “Don’t go. Please… I know you must, but… stay with me a little while longer. Just a little while.”

“Stay with you as long as you want,” Geralt answered, kissing across her thighs. She could feel the wet trail of his beard over her stomach, his hands gentle as he slid them around her waist, and she let out a soft sigh as he kissed the base of her ribcage, his lips trailing over her slowly, taking in every inch he could find. Leaning down again to her feet, he began to unfasten her boots, taking special care not to do anything to them as he slid them off, setting them aside on the petal-laden floor. He kissed her dainty foot as it was freed, before undoing the other boot in the same way, setting it aside with the first before pulling her pants and panties down to join them.

Yennefer gripped the rope supports as she felt the cold garden air on her bare legs, before wrinkling her nose as she felt Geralt’s tickling beard start to trail kisses up her slender calves. He was taking his time, she realized, making sure to cover every inch of her he could reach, and she watched him eagerly as he took hold of the rope supports, pulling himself back to his feet again. Taking hold of her blouse, he pulled it up over her head, allowing it to fall to the floor of the gazebo as well, and she let out a soft gasp as her breasts were freed, moaning as he teased her nipples with his tongue.

Geralt kissed his way over her collar-bone, resting her head in his hand as he kissed her neck, and he felt her give a low, shuddering breath as his hot cock pulsated eagerly against her thigh again. She knew how difficult this was for him, holding everything in like this, and she kissed his cheek, before reaching out to pull the laces of his trousers free at last. The bulge in his pants nearly burst against the eyelets as she loosened the knot holding it in, and he let out a sharp breath, feeling the pressure finally wane against his pulsing member. Sliding his pants and underwear to the floor, Geralt leaned in to kiss his wife again, feeling her slender fingers against his cock as she teased it, tormenting him with the faintest brushes of her hand.

Picking Yennefer up off the swing, Geralt lifted her to his hips again, feeling her legs curl eagerly around his waist as he sat down in the swing himself, giving a soft hiss at the feel of cold wood against his skin. Yennefer laughed at her husband’s distress, and he chuckled good-naturedly at her delight, kissing her pillowy lips to stifle her as she wrapped her arms around his neck again. She gave a low moan as she slid down over him, slowly moving to encompass his pulsing cock, wrapping her legs across the back of the swing as she held fast to the ropes to support herself. He could feel her silky warmth sliding over him, her legs giving a faint shudder as he rose to meet her, and he thrust, setting the swing in motion, causing Yennefer to gasp as she felt him move inside of her.

She pressed her soft breasts against his bare chest, her dainty hands holding to the ropes as he gripped her hips, her hair wild across his face as she rode him, making everything smell of lilac and gooseberries. The swing shuddered against its supports with each new movement, causing a rain of petals to flutter down from the ceiling, but Geralt found he could not care less what effect their lovemaking was having on their surroundings. Yennefer slid down over him again, causing the swing to creak as he pushed up inside her, letting her do most of the work as he held her steady, making sure the swing did not pitch them both to the floor. It was strange, and awkward, and utterly irrational, but that was what he loved so much about his wife, he realized – she was impossible to deter, no matter what circumstances were thrown her way to discourage her.

She was a woman of worldly stubbornness, he thought; someone for whom the world had always tried to say no, but someone who had refused to accept that fate, insisting on making her own way despite them.

Geralt grunted as Yennefer rocked in his lap, his fingers digging eagerly into the flesh of her hips, and she gave a low moan as she rode him, her thighs shuddering against his as he pushed up deeper inside. Her hair was covered in petals by now, the smell of their bodies mingling with the scent of flowers, and the swing gave another creak as it moved again, pushed forward by the motion of their lovemaking. Geralt kissed his wife’s neck as she rocked her hips against him, feeling the brush of her flawless skin against his scars, the searing violet of her eyes boring into his as he watched her move over him like an ethereal dryad.

She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that – but there was so much more to her than her beauty. She was smart, and funny, her humour dry as a bone, sometimes putting even him to shame with her deadpan barbs. But she was also kind, and loving, willing to make sacrifices for those she cared about, something he might not have guessed of her when he had met her all those years ago, when she had been trying to harness the power of a djinn for her own means. She had wanted so much back then, and would not be satisfied until she had it all—but now, she was willing to give all of her happiness up if it meant seeing him or Ciri happy, just once.

Geralt faltered at the thought, moving his hands to her back as she pressed her face into his neck; he could feel her thighs shuddering hot against his as he gave another thrust, fucking her as the swing rocked beneath them. “Love you so much, Yen,” he told her, causing her to shudder, breathing warm against his neck. “Everything I’ve ever wanted. From the first day I saw you. Never wanted anyone how I wanted you.” He huffed, rocking into her warmth again, feeling her legs wrap tighter around his hips as he spoke, and she let out a hot breath against him, moving over him again until skin touched skin.

“Needed you,” he told her, breathing heavier. “Needed you to challenge me. Make me see who I really was. Always half a man without you… no idea where I was going in life. You gave me a place to be. Right at your side, always. Gave me a reason to come home.”

“I love you too, Geralt,” Yennefer breathed, pushing his sweaty hair back from his face with shaking hands. She kissed him again, deeply, allowing him to drink her in, tasting the salty sweat of their efforts on her lips; he could feel himself getting close to climax, the warm friction of her body driving his senses wild – the taste of her breath on his tongue, the sweetness of her essence inside him, causing his heart to race as he held her hips, steadying her.

“You want twins,” she suddenly spoke again, causing him to look up in surprise, feeling her shudder against his palms. “You’ve been thinking about it… even through everything else. A boy and a girl. Is that what you want?”

“What I’ve always wanted,” Geralt answered, thrusting inside her again and hearing her keen in pleasure. She rolled her head back, letting her dark hair fall like curtains over her shoulders as she rode him, moving her hands to clasp over his on her thighs as he fucked her, matching her energy. She was reading his mind again, he realized, but he found he did not mind so much this time; he would never have had the courage to tell her about his want for children with her otherwise, not wanting to hurt her feelings. He had kept those thoughts hidden from her for so long, only bringing them forward when she was not around to see them, but now he realized how good it felt to share them with her, to let her know how much he wanted the same things she did.

“Once this is over… maybe we can adopt,” he told her, almost panting as he swallowed back a lump in his throat. He could feel the white-hot tension building, but he did not want the moment to end just yet, not when there was still so much to say. “Tons of kids needing homes after the war. Take in as many as you want. Fill the house with kids. More than you could ever imagine. You’d make such a good mom, Yen.”

“Yes,” Yennefer panted, rocking into him again, her dark hair wild across her face, sticky with sweat. “Tell me what a good mother I’d be, Geralt. Tell me I’d make an amazing mother.”

“You _would_ be an amazing mother,” Geralt agreed, causing Yennefer to roll her head back, moaning as she rode him. He could feel the wet streaks of her thighs against his, and he felt a sharp pain as the urge to come surged anew; her excitement aroused him, and she was so hot right now, so wet, that it made it hard to think of anything else. “I’ve seen how you are,” he told her, gritting his teeth as a froth of pained spittle passed his lips. He could feel the saliva dripping down his beard, and he grimaced, giving another determined thrust inside her. “Seen how you are with Ciri,” he said, barely managing to speak through the knot in his gut. “Love her like your own flesh and blood. Like nobody else. Can’t imagine a better mother.”

Yennefer let out a high-pitched laugh of ecstasy, her nails digging into his back as he thrust inside her, the sound of sweat against sweat and the smell of their bodies mingling turning the moment into a wild frenzy. She kissed him, desperately, panting, his spit and her sweat becoming one as their mouths collided, his hands pressing deep indents in her thighs as the swing gave a precarious creak and shudder again. “I love you, Yen,” he told her, kissing her neck and holding her as she leaned back to let him kiss her breasts; she was a goddess in his arms, flowery and ethereal, with a crown of wild dark hair like the night sky.

“I know you do,” Yennefer answered, biting her lip as he teased her breasts again. Her thighs burned with effort, but she could see him waiting, holding back until he knew she was ready for him, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in close until their bodies sealed with sweat. “Make me a mother, Geralt,” she whispered, her voice hot in his ear, causing him to shudder at the sound. “Give me what I’ve always wanted. It never hurts to try. Put a child inside of me.”

Geralt let out a long breath at her words, pulling her in tightly as her legs wrapped around his hips, and he felt his body wrack with relief as he released, feeling her squirm at the sudden warmth inside of her. He could feel the tension leaving his body, released with the last few aftershocks of ecstasy, and he felt Yennefer’s nails digging into his back, her face buried in his neck as she held him close. They had never been this intimate before, he realized – this close, this personal, this honest in their lovemaking – and he felt another shock run through him, causing him to shudder as he wrapped his arms around her slender back, burying his face in her petal-laden hair. She was soaked with sweat, and weary with effort, breathing heavily in his arms as her heart beat like a sparrow’s against his palms, and he kissed her shoulder gently as he held her close, never wanting to let her go, never wanting the moment to end.

“Yen—”

_CRACK._

A second’s warning was all they got before the swing collapsed, sending them tumbling to the floor, followed by a rain of petals that nearly buried them as they lay, too shocked to move. There was an instant of silence as they sat in the pile of broken rope and flowers, before Yennefer let out a giddy laugh, grabbing a handful of petals and tossing them into Geralt’s face. Geralt spat as the petals obscured his vision, clinging to his wet beard and sweaty hair, before he opened his eyes again, looking over to see Yennefer grinning gleefully across at him from where she sat. Picking up another handful of petals, she tossed them into the air, watching them flutter down, before she moved across the floor to kiss her husband again, sliding her arms around his neck as more petals fell to cover them.

* * *

Petals still clung to their hair and clothes as they made their way into the house for supper, and Geralt smirked as he pulled a petal from Yennefer’s jacket, causing her to giggle softly as he set it beside his plate. They had left the broken swing on the floor of the gazebo, trusting that someone who knew how to fix it would see to their mess before too long, and they tried hard to hide their guilty grins as they ate, doing their best not to look like two teenagers still blushing from a first romp in the hay.

Shani sat across from them at the table, and she glanced down curiously at the petal by Geralt’s plate, before she looked up again with an inquisitive smile, noting the dishevelled look of the witcher compared to the pristine sorceress beside him. “You look like you’ve been in a fight,” she noted, chuckling at the observation. “Who won?”

“The swing,” Geralt answered, picking up his fork, trying not to glance guiltily over at Yennefer as he spoke.

Shani paused, trying to remember where she had seen a swing on the property. “The one in the garden?” she finally asked, picking up her juice to take a sip.

Geralt nodded. “Mhm,” he said, taking a bite of poultry. “Not built for heavy use.”

“Oh, come now,” Shani scolded, smiling across at him. “Don’t disparage yourself. You’re not _that_ heavy.”

Geralt looked up in surprise at the comment, his expression caught between concern and confusion, before he turned to look over at Yennefer, who was struggling not to laugh, hiding her stifled snorts in her napkin. “Hm,” he said, spearing another bite of poultry. “Not yet, at least. Only a matter of time.”

“There _is_ such a thing as sympathetic pregnancy,” Yennefer observed, smirking as she reached for her glass of wine. “First the weight comes on, then next he’ll be complaining of morning nausea and seeking remedies for sensitive nipples.”

“Don’t want to talk about my nipples at dinner,” Geralt grunted, glad to see Yennefer in such a good mood. She had laughed at his dour response, taking a cheerful sip of her wine, before he felt the warm weight of her hand on his thigh, and he smiled as he pressed his own hand over it, holding it tenderly under the table.

Dinner had proceeded with little incident after that, with Shani eventually moving her attention to Regis, discussing in an unusually lighthearted manner about which plants were known to counteract symptoms of the Catriona Plague. The Plague, Shani noted, had been prevalent in its present form for as long as she could remember practicing, but she had noticed an unusual spike in nonhuman cases about two years ago, during the start of the Third Northern War. Regis had hummed, noting that Foltest’s softer approach towards nonhumans had likely provided some additional protections against those who might seek to target them for such things, but he had to wonder how anyone could have specifically targeted nonhumans with something so unpredictable as the spread of an illness.

Geralt had soon lost interest after this, turning his entire attention to his food instead, holding Yennefer’s hand under the table as she perused her food one-handed beside him. They had eventually excused themselves from the table, making some pretext about Geralt needing to bathe, before they quickly retired to the master changing-room, doing their best to stay quiet as they readied for their bath. More water had been left on the floor than in the basin by the end of their lovemaking in the tub, and Geralt tousled his wet hair with a towel as he watched Yennefer collect their spilled water off the floor with her spell.

She was so beautiful, he thought, with her hair dripping in wild ringlets down her back, and he let his gaze trail over her slender form, noting every freckle and perfect imperfection. “Love you, Yen,” he told her, causing her to turn, looking back at him in surprise.

“You needn’t tell me every time we make love,” Yennefer answered, turning back to concentrate on her spell again. “You’ll concern me that you only care for me when I’ve spent time riding on top of you.”

Geralt snorted at the observation, setting his towel aside to cross the floor to the sorceress, and he waited patiently as she finished her spell, settling the marble of water on the hill outside the property. Turning around to face him again, Yennefer huffed, looking over his naked form, before she reached out to touch a scar on his chest, letting her finger trail over the indent in his left pectoral. “Pogrom,” Geralt noted, looking down to see what scar she was focused on. “Other’s’ve kinda faded. Only got that one to remember it by.”

“I remember where it came from,” Yennefer agreed, sounding much more solemn as she stared at the scar. “I was only thinking about… how lucky we are. To be given this second chance.”

Geralt nodded, taking her hand from his chest and bringing it to his lips to kiss it, and Yennefer blinked, seeming a bit dazed as she looked up at him, remembering where they were. “Got Ciri to thank for that,” Geralt answered, pressing her fingertips softly to his lips. “Wouldn’t be alive if not for her quick thinking. Gave us someplace to heal. Time to do it. Used her powers to save us, even though she knew it would draw the attention of the Hunt.”

Yennefer frowned, tucking a lock of wet hair worriedly behind her ear at the thought. “I wish you could find another solution to your task,” she told him, softly. “Apart from giving Ciri the final Trial. I worry… that even if she doesn’t die, she may sustain permanent damage from being subjected to it. You remember what happened to Avallac’h when we gave him the Trial of the Grasses— he suffered permanent nerve damage. He still can’t quite close either hand into a fist, to this day.”

“Probably makes it hard to write all his creepy eugenic annotations,” Geralt noted, dryly.

“I suppose,” Yennefer answered, letting out a soft sigh.

“Masturbation’s gotta be tough as hell, too,” Geralt added.

Yennefer looked up at him sternly at the addendum. “I doubt masturbation is our daughter’s primary concern,” she told him, frankly. “And even if it was, we’d have no right to take that from her. There are other solutions we can find to your task, Geralt, but we only have one of Ciri.”

Geralt paused, realizing that, as much as he fought it, his wife had a valid point in her worry, and he let out a tired breath, allowing his hand to fall to his side again, still holding hers. “Can’t take it off the table completely,” he admitted, trying to ignore Yennefer’s disappointed look. “But… won’t pursue it as the only solution. Gonna ask Eskel first, see if he has any ideas. Can’t promise I’ll be able to kill him or Lambert if it comes down to that or the Trial. But… won’t look into anything to do with Ciri until I’ve exhausted every other option.”

Yennefer nodded, seeming resigned to his decision, before she let out another sigh, deeper than the last. “I suppose that’s the most I can ask of you,” she said, looking up into his golden eyes again. “I would never wish harm on Eskel or Lambert. I do hope you know that. But… I would do anything for Ciri. She’s the only child I have, and if we lost her… I’m not sure what I would do.” She paused at the thought, chewing her lip, before she let out another short, worried breath. “I’m also afraid that if we ever did lose Ciri… I might lose you as well,” she admitted, quietly. “I adore her dearly, you know how much I do, but… she shares a special bond with you that even I don’t. If something were to happen during the Trial… I don’t know that you’d be able to live without her.”

Geralt frowned, feeling a sense of dread start to build in his chest at her concern; he had never thought about how life without Ciri might be, even during her time away in Vizima. The thought of being weeks of travel away from her could be sad at times, often lonely, but the thought of losing her forever – watching her die, and having to bury her – was almost more than he could bear. Yennefer was right: if he were to force Ciri through the Trial and she were to die as a result, he would never be able to forgive himself, or live with the guilt of what he had done. It was too much to ask of him, leveraging the life of one child against the other, and he found himself wondering if O’Dimm had been counting on that from the start, on the witcher not being able to choose.

“Can’t… think about it now,” he said after a moment, shaking his head to clear the dreary thought from his mind. “Talk about it some other time. Once I find out more from Eskel.”

Yennefer nodded again, before turning away from him, picking up a folded towel from their clean stack. “Do tell me if he’s doing alright, if you do manage to find him,” she told him, wrapping her hair in the soft cloth. “I worry about him. He seems so… lonesome. Though I suppose it’s difficult to find companionship when you’ve a disfigurement as noticeable as his.” Geralt frowned, realizing that Yennefer probably knew better than most how it felt to be othered due to a disfigurement, but he had never known Eskel to complain about his scars, usually taking his appearance in good-natured stride. Yennefer seemed not to notice his expression, only pressing her hands to the towel on her head, causing it to give off a soft hiss of steam before she pulled it away again, letting her dry curls fall to her shoulders.

“Do you know if he’s ever been in a long-term relationship?” she asked, causing Geralt to look up again, confused.

“Who, Eskel?” he asked, frowning at the question. “Not that I know of. Can only think of a few people he’s been with.” He paused, trying to remember the last time Eskel had spoken about past relationships, but he found it hard to place more than a few, realizing his fellow witcher was not the most talkative of their kin. “Only really know about a succubus,” he added, his frown deepening as he realized how little he actually knew about Eskel. “Wasn’t really a relationship, though. Just a one-night-stand. Seems strange, now that I think about it.”

“Perhaps he’s simply waiting for the right person to come along,” Yennefer suggested, her mouth curling into a small, impish smirk. “Perhaps he’s a romantic, unlike the rest of you. Eskel… someone’s knight in shining armour.”

Geralt grunted, having a hard time imagining Eskel as a knight in shining armour, though he supposed that was mostly because he was unused to thinking much about Eskel at all. That was probably unfair to Eskel, he realized – his fellow witcher had just as full a life as anyone else, even if most of it was spent toiling quietly in Geralt’s much more infamous shadow. Reaching over towards his wife again, he ran his hand through her raven hair, and Yennefer took his hand, kissing his calloused knuckles, before pulling on his wrist, hurrying him along.

“It’s time for bed,” she told him, her voice half insistent, half entreating as she pulled him in closer. “The sooner we get to tomorrow, the sooner all this task nonsense will be over.”

“Don’t wanna get to tomorrow _too_ soon,” Geralt answered, brushing her dark hair adoringly back from her face. “Maybe we stay up a little longer. Do whatever you want. Could even do it in bed.”

Yennefer sighed at his persistence, but smiled anyway, reaching up to tap him lovingly on the nose. “You’re insatiable, witcher,” she teased him. “Alright. One last time, then. But then we really must sleep. I don’t want you to be _too_ tired when you start on your second task tomorrow.”

* * *

Geralt yawned as he pulled his sword-strap across his chest, checking the fastenings on his gloves and boots, before he turned to check Roach’s saddle, making sure the straps were all securely buckled. He had stayed up much later with Yennefer than intended, but he did not regret a second of it – they had started the night with sex, but it had turned into conversation halfway through, and he had been too enraptured by the topic to stop, even once she was no longer on top of him. He had become entranced by her expressions, scholarly and solemn, even with him deep inside her, and he had found the discussion that much more fascinating because of it, realizing she could speak on advanced scientific topics while simultaneously riding him through climax.

Geralt rubbed at his eyes as he secured Roach’s saddle-bags, making sure everything he had packed had made it onto her back, before he turned to face the manor again, watching as the others began to approach across the vineyard. They had all decided to head off at the same time, with Regis taking his leave that morning as well, and Geralt stifled another yawn as the vampire approached him, smiling sympathetically as he watched his friend struggle to stay awake.

Regis slid his thumb under his bandolier strap as he looked over the well-packed steed, before he turned his attention to Geralt again, tilting his head as he looked up into his friend’s tired face. “Long night?” he guessed, chuckling softly. “I suppose you and Yennefer are on better terms now. I detected something a bit frigid when I first arrived, but it seems to have gone now. For the better, I presume.”

“Much better,” Geralt confirmed, running a thoughtful hand down Roach’s sleek neck. “What about you, Regis? Heading back to Dettlaff?”

Regis hesitated, his smile quickly dropping from his face, before he sucked his lip, seeming uneasy to answer. “Not… yet,” he finally said, looking up again with furrowed brows. “I feel… a bit more time apart might do me good. Perhaps give me a bit more perspective. Allow me some time to think things over, rather than… proceeding rashly, potentially stepping out of line.” He paused, his dark eyes earnest, as if hoping he might realize something then, something that might make it all make sense, but he only lowered them again after a moment, letting out a soft breath as he took hold of his bandolier strap again.

“Perhaps I’m simply too out of practice,” he considered, letting out a soft chuckle that made Geralt’s heart ache to hear it. “Perhaps that’s what I’ll discover while I’m away for a bit—that I should simply let it go. That would certainly lessen any complication.”

“Don’t think that’s the answer,” Geralt told him, making a face at the conclusion. “Never know how these things go until you try. You’ll figure it out, Regis. You always do.”

Regis took a deep breath at his friend’s words, before offering him a weary smile, forced through the gauntness of his cheeks. “I certainly hope you’re right, Geralt,” he answered, cordially. “The alternative is… not something I’d like to think about.” He paused, allowing an uncomfortable moment to fall between them at the thought, before he moved forward to wrap the witcher in a one-armed hug, patting him fondly on the back. “I’ll return as soon as I have news,” he said, stepping back again to clap a hand to Geralt’s shoulder. “Perhaps once I learn a bit more from Orianna, or… whoever might have insight on the matter. I can’t promise I’ll return with much, but I’ll return with whatever I can.”

“Door’s always open,” Geralt answered, feeling Regis squeeze his shoulder warmly at the assurance. “If I’m not here, just tell Barnabas-Basil I said you could stick around.”

Regis nodded, taking another step back, and Geralt turned next to look over the rest of the party, allowing his eyes to move over Triss, Dandelion, Shani, and Yennefer all standing together, waiting their turn for his attention. Making his way over to the four of them, he approached Triss first, offering her a grateful nod, before next turning his attention to Dandelion, watching as the bard stepped forward to speak to him directly.

“Perhaps I should go with you, Geralt,” Dandelion suggested, adjusting his lute-strap eagerly across his chest. “Get a first-hand perspective of your adventures. It’d be a great boon for my new song.”

“Wanna travel through Kaedwen on horseback?” Geralt asked, raising a sceptical brow. “Sleeping on dirt, eating wild plants? Running into monsters along the way?”

Dandelion faltered, sucking his lip, seeming suddenly much less interested. “…Perhaps another adventure, then,” he agreed after a moment, flipping his hair distractedly from his face. “One where you’re closer to civilization, and… beds. Without so many monsters and bugs to contend with.”

Geralt grunted, grinning at the predictable answer, before reaching out to pat the bard gratefully on the shoulder, and Dandelion smiled as he watched his friend continue on, moving to the next person in line. Shani beamed up at Geralt as he approached, pulling her green travelling-cloak tighter around her shoulders, and he could not help his gaze from trailing down to the noticeable bump in the front of the fabric. It was not too terribly conspicuous, he guessed, if one were not specifically looking for it, though he wondered how effective it would be in the coming months to protect her from those who were.

“It’ll be bigger by the next time we see each other,” Shani told him, causing him to look up in surprise at the observation.

“Hm,” Geralt said after a moment, glancing down again. “Guess it will. Hard to imagine.”

Shani let out a chuckle, resting her hand wearily against the small of her back. “Yeah,” she agreed, letting out a soft sigh. “Hard to imagine for me, too.”

Geralt looked up at her again at her answer, noting her tired smile, the dark circles under her eyes, and he could not help wondering for a moment if sending her to some unfamiliar hideaway was truly the best solution. She was having a hard enough time as it was, even here in the comfort of Corvo Bianco, and he wondered if forcing a change of setting might only make things that much harder for her. There were no good options, he realized – either let her stay here, where she could be comfortable but never quite safe, or force her to travel between safe-houses, where she would be safer, but never quite comfortable.

He frowned at the thought, before telling himself it was better this way, though even he found that reassurance hard to believe – made even harder by the realization that Shani knew less about the situation than any of them. She had little idea why she was being moved, apart from general concern for her safety, and he had to wonder if that might not be for the best, with how taxing the journey would be for her on its own. He had to admit that moving her around gave him at least a slightly better chance to complete his tasks before her due date, and if she never had to know why she was being protected, it might be better for all of them, in the end.

“Take care of Yen for me,” Geralt said, glancing at his wife over Shani’s shoulder. “Don’t let anything happen to her. Never been good at avoiding trouble.”

“Funny, Geralt,” Yennefer returned, dryly. “I’m not the one who nearly died three times in a month.”

Geralt hummed at the observation, taking his hand from Shani’s stomach again. “Third time’s the charm,” he told her, offering a fond smirk at her concern.

Yennefer sighed. “Yes,” she agreed, tiredly. “My only concern is that the fourth may be the one to finally kill you. You must promise me you’ll be careful, Geralt – even if I’m not there to nag you to do it.”

Geralt grinned, moving across to his wife, before leaning down to give her a peck on the lips. “Got the xenovox,” he told her, patting the pouch at his belt where the communication device rested against his hip. “Could always nag me that way. Be nice to hear your voice every now and then.” Reaching up, be brushed her dark hair from her face as she let out another sigh, before he cupped her cheek in his hand, leaning down to kiss her again, more tenderly this time.

He had no idea when the next time would be that he would see her in person, he realized; he had spent months apart from her before, even years, but those times seemed like an entirely different life now. The thought of being away from her now, even for a day, sent a squeezing pain through his chest, and he pulled her in close, burying his face in her raven hair and breathing in her comforting scent. “Love you,” he told her, softly, feeling her dainty hands moving across his back as they embraced. She seemed just as loathe to let go of him as he was of her, he realized, and he kissed the top of her head again, knowing they would have to part ways eventually.

“I know you do,” Yennefer said, her own soft voice muffled against his chest. “And I love you, Geralt. I wish we hadn’t spent so much time disagreeing before all this.”

Geralt chuckled, running a hand over her curls. “Couples argue,” he told her, unconcerned. “No different from the twenty-some years we had before. Just ‘cause we’re married now doesn’t mean our arguments are worse.” He turned his head, resting his scruffy cheek against her soft hair as he breathed in her scent again. “Wouldn’t care anyway,” he added, feeling her heart beating steadily against his palms on her back; her heartbeat had slowed since they had first begun speaking, his presence grounding her, giving her some semblance of balance. “Would spend my whole life arguing. ‘Long as I got to spend it arguing with you.”

“Softie,” Yennefer teased, pulling her head back to look up into his face again. “You really must stop being so good to me. Otherwise I’m not sure I’ll be able to say goodbye.” Reaching up to his face, she brushed her gloved fingers across his wintery beard, listening to the familiar crackle, the sound of a lazy morning in bed, of a midnight nuzzle beneath the stars. She sighed as she cupped his face in her hands, passing her thumbs lovingly across his scarred cheeks, before she took another deep breath, trying not to let it shake with anxiety as she prepared to speak again

“Please take care of yourself out there,” she told him, her voice quiet, almost desperate in its sincerity. “I don’t think I could stand to lose you now. Not when I’ve only just begun to know you again.”

“Promise I’ll do my best,” Geralt answered, reaching up to touch the dainty hand on his face. Yennefer nodded, before pulling his face down to meet her, kissing him as gently and tenderly as he had ever been kissed, and Geralt breathed in her scent again as he kissed her back, wanting to remember it for the long ride through Kaedwen.

He had no idea how long it would be until he got to see his wife again, he realized, and as she pulled away from the kiss again, he found himself wishing the moment had lasted longer. He wondered if this would be his point in time – this kiss, this calm before the inevitable storm – his moment he would return to again and again, if given the chance O’Dimm had spoken of. He wished he could live in this moment, this second of bliss before the reality of the world set in again, and he let out a long breath as Yennefer took a step back, returning to her place at Shani’s side.

“You head out first,” Yennefer told him, indicating with a nod of her head towards the crystalline necklace. “We’ll hang back to make sure it’s working, and then we’ll head out. Don’t worry about us – we know where we’re going.”

“Never questioned that,” Geralt returned, touching the necklace warily as he turned back to Roach, before hooking his foot into her stirrup and pulling himself up into the saddle astride her. Taking a deep breath, he paused, glancing back at Yennefer and Triss once more, before he lifted the crystalline disc from his chest, resting it against his lips as he closed his eyes. He could not help feeling a bit foolish as he tried to imagine the old witcher fortress in his head, but he soon realized how vivid his memories of it were— he could almost see its crumbling walls, almost smell the musky scent of its long-forgotten corridors, and he let out a low breath, feeling the moisture fog against the casing holding the stone in place.

“_Va aép_… Kaer Morhen,” he said, speaking only loud enough for himself to hear, before opening his eyes quickly as the stone gave a pulse, followed by the familiar sound of reality being ripped into a portal. He faltered as he stared ahead into the oval of light, feeling the eerie wind pulling him towards the void, before he let the stone drop to his chest again, pulling on Roach’s reigns as she gave an uneasy whinny.

“Whoa, girl,” he told her, rubbing a reassuring hand across the mare’s neck. “One quick jump and it’ll be over. Triss said it works, so… gotta trust her.” He made a face at the assurance, realizing even he would not be convinced by so weak a plea, but he clicked his tongue regardless, giving two short taps to the side of his horse’s flank. Roach gave another bluster as she moved towards the portal, pulling her head in towards her neck, her footfalls wary and small against the cobblestones as she moved one way and then the other in an attempt to find a way around.

“Come on, Roach,” Geralt pressed, squeezing her sides again, only to earn a short, distressed nicker in return, and he sighed as he felt the warmth of the portal on his face, realizing that, no matter how much he hated it, his horse would only hate it more. Taking a deep breath, he paused to think, before lifting his hand above her rump, cursing himself for his last resort as he brought it down, hard, on her flank. Roach whinnied as she felt the sharp slap of his palm, tossing her head and lurching forward towards the portal, and Geralt shut his eyes tightly as it enveloped them both—before it closed behind them, and there was only darkness.


End file.
